The Moon, that taciturn, imperfect satellite. She wonders if it ever felt lonely, if it is tired of being on its own. The moon doesn’t answer but she knows something for sure: It is so strangely beautiful that she feels like she can gaze at it forever / She, that taciturn, imperfect earthling. She wonders if she is lonely, if she is tired of being on her own. She can’t even answer but she knows something for sure: Solitude is strangely comforting that she feels like she can live with it forever.