Me and you inside the moon

A few nights ago, I saw the moon from my apartment window. Orange light was flooding into

my bedroom, as the moon hung over the city skyline. I thought how big it looked, how looming,

how ominous. A small light revolved around the moon, highlighting its different crevices and

craters. Somehow, it projected a shadow onto the night sky. I called you in, to look at it with me.

And we sat, watching, as the moon grew bigger and bigger, until we were inside of the moon.

Inside the moon were huge, ticking hands of a clock, ornate and metal, and I knew they meant

death. I looked at you with panic in my eyes, and you told me, “I have seen this a million times

before.”

And then I died.

But I was nowhere new. At a restaurant I went to with you, and there was a nice breeze blowing.

And I remembered all the people I loved, the animals, the things, and when I thought of them

they appeared before me. The only difference I can remember is that every feeling simply passed through me, like a river overflowing.