[Entry XV]
The Dreamwalker was not born of the moon—
they were adopted by it. One night she stitched a thin tide behind their heart and taught them: feeling is a gravity; steer by it.
Since then, crescent nights let them read the world’s saltnotes, full nights let the Moon borrow their eyes to find lost things. When they feel truly, waters move, and the Moon remembers which door to open.
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The moon keeps pockets—
hushcoins, tide-notes, names we cried.
She thumbs them smooth with crater-light
until they shine.
She remembers you by saltnote,
pulls your shoreline nearer
when your chest is heavy,
lets harbors lift the boat.
Feeling is a gravity, not a flaw.
Swell and the world tilts kinder;
ebb and the path appears.
Bring moth-questions, whisperbright.
She’ll open a seam in night,
spill quiet lightning and map-thin secrets—
just enough to steer by.
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Record preserved by perilpoet
Manifest the Moon with a memory here
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