Not everything in the sky is a star

It’s a rainy night in late September, the roof leaks in my cabin on Rattlesnake Hill, outside a dog is barking underneath the obstructed equinox, the harvest moon, Jupiter and Venus smolder under black clouds—and young girls scream bloody fucking murder at the bottom of the Hill—its kind of a spooky night—my head is sogging (no typo) in beer and wandering (ditto) why other people can’t seem to adjust to the environment? I can let go—and if I can so can anyone—Ty Cobb looks at me and I look back—it’s a war of nerves.