Moonlight is hypnosis. It beats invisible waves into one point, to the very point of consciousness that takes the waking state into a dream.
Some kind of cold and dead life begins, even inspiration, but all this is shrouded in fogs of fundamental illusionism; this is the pathos of bloodless and dead hallucinations. The moon - the combination of complete rigor and death with mobility, reaching frenzy, to dancing. It is nothing that has become metal, emptiness, pouring monotonous and relentless peace, a hallucination from which the blood in the veins does not get cold, but which carries you into the blue emptiness by some zigzags, some spirals, not up and down, but to the left and to the right, to some unknown point, inside this point, to the depth of this point.
One can feel how the brain begins to expand, how black dips form in it, how black and light, as it were transparent, or skeletons, or starry piles, or huge spiders with luminous eyes, rise from these failures.
Cold and stench, werewolf and self-torture, blue and black, hypnosis and life, whirlwind and silence - all merged into one noiseless and ossified hallucination. No wonder someone said that the demons have a cold seed.