Where is the Moon?

Surely I can't be wrong about everything. My dark, fatalistic neurodivergent mindset also reveals flashes of light which hopefully can prevail. I feel compelled to write - perhaps a powerful read, a unique insight into an unusual mind. Where does a story start. One might say at the beginning but that would take an inordinate amount of time. Frankly, there's so much material but best to stay concise and avoid a stream of consciousness masquerading as virtuosity. The story opens along Northern Ireland's stunning County Down coastline, then journeys further afield, highlighting two particular trips with seven Italian August days in Turin and Cuneo closely followed by seven Spanish days in Seville, Granada and Malaga, culminating with three days in London - coinciding by pure chance with the funeral of Queen Elizabeth. My book navigates an ordered chaos of tragedy, trauma, mental health, despair, lust, love and maybe hope. It is a raw ride within the heavens of the Alps, with Dante's Hell lurking in the shadows. A full moon rises, alluringly beautiful and I ask my Lupina, my Cressida, my everything "Dov'è la Luna. " She raises her small hand, pointing lovingly.