What is to come of the waning moon? It's long, jumping mountains, smooth and irreversible as we are. The centuries of art and music resting on its shoulders. What shall come of it, and we - you and me? Shall we be trophied in the sky and made into music? Shall we sleep beneath the stars; it is no different. The moon is a reflection of us. I used to know a girl who said, "I'd like to go to the moon."
"Why?" I would ask her.
"To see the Earth from somewhere else."
"To hell with that; the moon is too familiar."
"You think so?"
"I do."
"Well I suppose there's no point in going then, if you don't agree with it."