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She had always been partial to the eccentric; to the hiss of the steam engine, the florescent neon reflections of city signs, the crackle and pop between your laugh, the silhouette of a departing lover. These were the things that gathered on her like moss on a fallen oak; so many tiny details, immaculate constellations of goosebumps on her skin – your fingertips reading the memories like braille against the stark lightlessness of midnight with the curtains drawn. Though, outside, the moon is full and bright – a beacon in the night sky, outshining all the stars and the glow of the streetlamps.