Soft in the moon-dark, spongiform vegetation underfoot; she sleeps, and you are her dream. A wisp of chill stirs your soft fur and hastens your step. Your heart warms.
You know not of what she dreams, but you know still that there is only one passing of the moon to find it. Compulsions lead you.
I need to read the whole issue, myself. Still need to read the latest Night Train, too. ((The "cover" is a photo I took the last time I went camping)).
Today, though, we're hunting the mythical beast Emptyus Apartmentus.