Every time the moon boasts of its uncanny and supreme beauty, piercing the dark sky with its indestructible fullness, I so purposely take my unbidden chance to blame it for my elaborate lunacy. It is foolish to say that the night is young. It has grown old, older than the most ancient stars, or any creature of the universe. The dark skies have been the sanctuary of all whims and wishes, the maddest and the most hopeless. We think it is undying of exuberance and always yielding of the darkest, most covetous partaking. When it falls, we marvel in its mystery, and when it ends, we delight as if it is our very first beginning. The night, and the moon, with all the infinite possibilities keep us safe, and anticipating - every single time, just before we ramble to slumber. And sometimes, despite all the glory and the shrill frivolity it unselfishly offers, we condemn it for endlessly gratifying our appeal, bearing our unbearable human foolish desires, with a striking, thwarting finish.