The moon is indeed a sailing ship, as our ancestors suspected; but like all deepspace sailing vessels, it's propelled not by wind but light: the light of dreams, the movies of the night... from the dream-projector run by the helmsman (or in my case, helms-raven).

My anima, Silky, a small nightmare, is piloting at the bow. The crew of coyotes, owls, and seasick children huddle amidships.

And along the sides? Not craters and not Viking shields, but other movie reels, spare dreams, old dreams... as you reel through your night, leaving a wake of memories behind you to fade at sunrise. Unless of course you bother to write and draw them.

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