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Once in a Blue Moon.

A rickety house behind a dead bowling alley, where Lady Darkest sat with her veil and mirror, and Lord Shadow kept track of the time, never speaking, just nodding when it was your turn to talk.

The ceremonies weren’t gentle. Wednesdays were for drum circles, trance rhythms that made the world breathe sideways. Sundays — 8 p.m. sharp — out back behind the rusted fence. We’d line up, palms up, like children waiting for communion, only it wasn’t bread they fed us.

They were strict — as strict as priests, but meaner. They didn’t tell you what to believe. They told you to remember what you’d already done.

Sometimes I think I never left. That this body I see from above — slack-jawed and floating in sweat — is still there, forever in that room, chasing the same half-high that never comes again.

And sometimes…
The finger and the thumb tattoo on my back starts to itch.

Sometimes it doesn’t feel too bad.
You can pick your friends.
You can pick your nose.
But you can’t pick your friend’s nose.

And God help you if they try to pick yours.