We should leave the moon alone. I went to her once with a question. You don’t just go to the moon with a question, not anymore, but things were different then. The moon wanted an ardent debate on the topic of dust. What was it, whose was it, how can we lay blame for it. How can we monetise the dust. I lay the blame of dust in my bed and slept awhile. Like all of you, I felt super lame. There were academics emailing with the promise of a lunar economy and a cupboard slamming shut at gunpoint. Our father was desperate, who art in languor of sleepgolf in Middlesex said “where is my pill down the back of your throat”. It was a little fuzzy pink thing he popped with no water. The whole moon. The whole pill of her eaten to become annoying. Take a pill. I would pay a whole pill for the moon and back. That man wanted my oesophagus as a kind of liquid spear indicative of mental illness, or science fiction. How much would pay to go to the moon with the money you need? How much would you really swallow?
…satellite & loaf & mope & idle & waste & pine & languish & years ago & infatuate & party catharsis & killing…
mariaology 