Journal Entry 54 - September 1st, 1803
Every autumn is simply a foretaste of the forthcoming times. The days wane and the nights wax. Blankets of mist rise and shroud the earth. And as the leaves scatter fearfully, the winds prophesize the nocturnal satellite’s everlasting throne within the heavens. Indeed, each generation of seeds is far more promising than the last. Their fruits yield wondrous results every season, and I could not be more delighted. Under the first Harvest Moon shall vines be scythed and ghosts be gathered. Under the second Hunter’s Moon shall soil be torn and tendrils slither. Orange embers within, a sharp grin spreads. Screams disrupt the quietude and my kin live. Such are my dreams of the Eternal Night.
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