The moon tells me each of my ribs is a rung leading up to the stars. Says these holes in my soul can be patched with some courage, optimism, and crazy-for-life glue. She warns me to never allow my spirit to write ballad shambles in the key of D-funct. Says to strip away excess hurt and anger. Let go of old grudges. Find the emotional bullets that have wounded you, the moon tells me. Trace their path back to the gun. Discover the trigger, disable it. Then, the moon says, melt that gun into a peace-sign necklace.