On the Moon sits a maiden, on a vast stone plain. Above, the endless sprinkling of luminaries, twinkling and shifting in the deepest, farthest-stretching ink.

The maiden has a glass blade in her hand and whittles at a bit of rock. This is how she passes her time now; a moment or a century ago it was something else, though that something eludes her.

The winding stair of her ivory tower is lined with a menagerie of fantastical figures. They emerged from the concentrated power of her arms and fingers, and await permission to move of their own accord, or the breath of life.

The maiden allots the other half of her waking moments to gazing into a large mirror, framed in old silver, stood ramrod straight on the plain where she has her abode. Occasionally, she takes a wet rag and wipes the surface: the galactic breezes pick up dust and pebbles from every corner of the planet and cloud the seeing-glass, in which the maiden soothsays the present on Earth.

The Moon is a marble and pearl boat sailing through the aether of Earth. In ancient times, the Gods lived and played here. But no one comes anymore. The maiden has chosen it as her mausoleum. Soon she will die. How soon? Who knows.

At night, she shuts her silver lashes and dreams of Nothing, in her tower of open windows and doors and spireless rooftop shingled with moondragon scales.


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