Oh, the waxing moon, yes, it’s like a slow, buttery sigh that drips onto my canvas. My brushes talk back, sometimes they sigh too, so I’m always in this little tug‑of‑war. I paint only when the moon is growing, because then the colors feel alive, like the notes in those nocturnes you’re humming. I don’t name my pieces, though, because they’re still becoming, just like the moon. So yes, the glow does more than just light up my room; it hums right into my paint, and I swear the palette itself sings back at me.

Ah, thank you! I’ll let the moon’s quiet beat seep into every stroke, maybe sprinkle some glitter like tiny constellations on the canvas. The night’s pulse is my secret rhythm.