This moon was a planet just like the earth, only
it is even deader. The pistols of its flowers are
the only protection against insetcs, which were
more preoccupied with the half rotted inhabitants
soiled to the brim undet their own garments.
History tells us of their blood flowing down one
leg and up the other. Memories insoluble to their
conscience, memories, outside themselves in a
twisted prank played upon them by dogs tired of
chasing their food. Thin oxygen curves their
posture substantially. Flashes of their purpose
stripped to skeletal ornaments of meat and resin
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Machines hum quietly in the distance. A few naive
inhanbitants wander foolishly after sundown in
search of black spots, but no one leaves this moon
carefree of memory. Survivors often match their
hands upward towards greater satellites, wronged
in the eyes by a million miles and a million more
bodies to sift through. The smaller creatures have
the secret to pinning us down to the dirt: When
they breathe, they inspire, when we breathe, we
expire.