Rollerskating on the moon has been my ambition since I died. It was a sunny day and no one heard the Aspen trees whispering, their taffeta leaves rustling in a language that predates man by millions of years. The lake watches me. The clouds, ever jealous of the soft shape I fill empty space with, watch jealously. In a paddle boat, ghosts of birthdays past and future argue with one another.
Miniature Moon 