Barbara and I went outside at night, with a shiver, and looked up at a special moon. "Ain't that something," we said, as the dog trotted passed us and micturated on the lawn. It was a blood moon, or a holy moon, I can't remember which. It just looked like old cinnamon to me. But it was neat, I guess, even with our distance and lack of magnification. Planets in a frenzy, in fixed chaos too big for us to perceive, find themselves in these unique positions, relative to us, and we all run out of the houses at strange times and look up and say "Ain't that something." Then, a couple decades later, we do it again. But how couldn't we? Crazy people, soaked in paranoia and complicated narratives, think the positions of these chaos objects signify important events. They think the chunks of rock in the sky prophecy. We all run out and say "Ain't that something?" And then wonder what that something is.