My painting teacher used to say that the best part about painting is the freedom to tell lies. Each painting is a lie, he would joyfully declare, and where a good lie ends, true art begins.
At night I saw the moon, veiled by clouds, rising above a tangled black-of-green. Our tents were swallowed by darkness underneath the great trees, but the white pavilion echoed the pearliest moonlight. I could see all this from a distance, standing at the far end of the meadow.
Back home, I remember:
Separated by a meadow, the trees and tents were northwest of it, while the moon rose above the tree tops at the southeast corner. Meaning, they were nowhere near.
Then I –
grab the moon and make it rise elsewhere, swing the earth, place more fireflies amongst the blackened branches. Make it look the way it is seen by the heart, for the eyes are so often mistaken.

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