Writing without thinking about what I am writing...an interesting exercise...Must read before I publish though

In the lonely hours of the first half moon, Dorothy would sing silent lullabies to her unborn child. Not a human child, but the offspring of her devotion to Music. Yes, she was yet to relase a music album...yet, she was apprehensive about flinging her voice into the amphitheatre of criticism which awaited her in the world outside.
She had always been a child of the Moon, constant yet capricious, predictable yet dynamic, eternal yet elusive...and her voice was infused with all these rare traits of her personality. She sighed as she turned away from the terrace, and made her lonely way back to her gigantic bed-room.
For gigantic it was...of epic proportions indeed...and all the space emphasised her loneliness wih great emphasis, until she often felt like a splash made in the Sea by the smallest of stones...
She should have listened to those long ago cautionary tales her grandmother had chanted on those sun-bathed mornings...her words of advice against spending a life alone...how loneliness eats away at the core of our golden souls like a famished canker...how the warm gold glow which all souls seemed to be born with, in her grandma's opinion, would harden into a metallic state of cold indifference.