The future. I'm on a quest. I hitch a ride on a deep-space mission. Well, not exactly me--an actor plays me. All I can do is watch. But he plays me adequately--maybe not the most flattering interpretation, but OK--so I shut up and let him quest for me.

"I" am a traveling bard with a sort of harp. I/he discovers that each cast member has a personal moon, assigned and reserved by... whom?

'My' moon is a reddish ball, scooped and scalloped with deep craters, SO deep they tell me instantly that gravity here must be negligible. Only a few hundred miles across, then. Damn. I hoped for a Titan, a planet-size moon with an atmosphere, maybe even life. Still, this one orbits a giant world. Closely, very closely. Very VERY closely... Oh! It's resting on the snowy ground of its fast-spinning planet. Weird!

Wait, IS this a moon, or some monstrous puffball or tropical carrion-flower? It seems anchored by a woody stem...

The bard who is me sits by the moon, on a mountain, plays my harp, then snacks a while, contemplating the moon-fungus-flower. And then, he offhandedly tosses the crumbs and pours the dregs of his soda onto the roots of the great plant bearing the moon... The roots instantly suck up these exotic nutrients, as rare as iridium here. Their lack constrained the plant's growth--till now.

In seconds, the moon-vine doubles its immmense size...

And then the red moon blooms.

NOTE

On Haight Street today, I saw so many smokers, litterers, stoners... paradoxical. Felt a sad longing--so many were hot girls in imaginative costumes, artists and musicians... but with my severe allergies, their world is off limits. Even kissing smokers is bitter and burning for me and I get sick in dirty houses.

Yet my dream disagrees. I feed romance in such an offhand way--just leftover crumbs of time. My private world is starved for nutrients from outside. Small amounts of trash aren't toxic--they can stimulate major growth. Even a girlfriend with a few toxic habits, even if I couldn't see her much, even if we couldn't stay together long, still might make me bloom like a dream.

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