And then, the sun came down. She greeted the moon with the indifference of the regular drunk who keeps to himself. No use messing with the moon, it’s already thirty minutes past her estimated time of arrival, and an additional hour after her urged departure. What’s the point. Let the minutes stalk themselves until they create a mountain of time so large that it won’t be noticed until you’ve stepped three years beyond it. But what an undescribable monument it has become, nothing spectacular to the casual observer but utterly terrifying to its unexpected artist. Just another cumbersome piece that won’t sell.