. . .

The night, near Hans’ farm, holds only shining echoes and memories of the morning’s madness. Crystal veins throb with subtle luminance. Butterflies flutter, flicker, glow. The slime of the moon-beast’s fur has taken in the sunlight; it reflects it, slowly; it doles out that reflection, in gleams and glitters and pale shimmers, through all the hours of the dark.

It is a beautiful farm but it is a doleful farm for the things Hans does are bad.

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