Feel free not to reblog this photo. If you hate puppies. And Christmas.
The moon, who is whimsicality itself, gazed into the window while you were sleeping in your cradle, and said to herself: “This child is my favorite.”
And she descended with velvet steps down her staircase of cloud, and making no sound slipped through the windowpanes. Then she threw herself over your body with the downy endearments of a mother, and she pressed her colors on your face. Ever after you’ve had green pupils, and remarkably pale cheeks. It was while brooding on your visitor that your eyes grew so astonishingly large; and she folded her arms so firmly and tenderly around your neck that you have ever since the desire to weep.
Meanwhile, as her delight grew, the Moon charged the whole room with a kind of phosphorescence or light-filled poison; and this fully alive light began to think and said, “You will be forever under the influence of my kiss. Your beauty will be my sort of beauty. You will love what I love, and love who loves me: the water and the clouds, also silence and the night; the endless and green ocean; waters chaotic and elegant, the place where you are not, the beloved whom you do not know; the grotesque blossoms; perfumes that make you rave, and cats that drape themselves on pianos and who groan like a woman, with the voice husky and delicious.