HEY JUSTIN I WROTE YOU A POEM
So in grade four, when listening sucked, we’d sneak Dragonlance books under our desks. How there’s three wizard guilds, distinguished by the pigment in their robes, their rigid faction moralities, and their chromatic totem moons. Good, neutral, and you-know-what. But all those common-ass herders and teamsters just figure Krynn’s got two moons. One ivory, one rust: whatever people see. That other moon, though, Nuitari? It knows what wizards really want. How red and white archmages can’t even tell it’s there, shaded out exactly like the night. How all those dark robes biking out for midnight spell component runs, they’ll stop to take it easy against some headstone carved like a baernaloth, spread out scrolls, maybe, if the turf’s wet, and trip out on the secret black moon. I mean today I did two pickle jars’ worth. Started this thing ten AM your time, when you said you did first pour. All things can be handled, but freaking out’s protocol. We stare down the philtre. How coffee’s actually red.
