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The violet night comes on like a stain. The full moon makes its stately procession as, one by one, the first of the fixed stars reveal themselves: Sirius, Canopus, Arcturus...
The light deceives at this latitude. The hour is later than it appears.
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Look at the moon.
In pre-modern astrological cultures, the moon was called 'The Shield of Man', believed to protect humankind against the malevolent interference of the fixed stars.
When the moon smothers the sun, the resulting eclipse can alter the arc of pendulums down on earth.
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Look at the stars.
Tradition holds that the stars grow restless when the summer moon is full, their grip on human affairs weakened by its protection. A time of openness and possibility, marked by celebrations, feasts, debt jubilees.
All in all, not a bad time of year to be in Portofiro.
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Look at the city.
Aero-trams convey the middle classes to their apartments in Lower Viudas and the Hill of Pigs. Little squares and ovals of light testify to their safe return.
Meanwhile, the building managers, delivery men, and cleaning ladies return to Quisach.
The classes may mingle during the day, but by evening they sort themselves back where they belong.
Over the Hill of Pigs, a few lights flicker to life.
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The sweet smell of ripening waste drifts up from dozens of household bins.
Take a breath.
The mild air fills your lungs once, then again. What are you doing here?
Turning my shame into success.
Seems like you're just standing around.
The light of the moon hardens and it no longer appears flat, but as it is: A great round mass of rock and metal hovering disturbingly close to the earth.
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Consider life in the lunar cadmium mines.
The last stop for failed spies of no further use to the Opera. Men and women stacked by the hundreds in dormitories filled with stale, recirculated oxygen.
Up there, your heart beats twice as fast and half as hard.
Working with dangerous machines under nearly feudal working conditions, beyond the legal authority of any government, all of whom benefit from access to rare metals.
RISE UP, YOU WRETCHED OF THE MOON. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR FREEZE-DRIED RATIONS AND THE RECYCLED AIR IN YOUR LUNGS.
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Look at the moon again.
Against its illuminated surface, it's possible to make out the transits of artificial satellites and the dark scratch-marks of the lunar mining colonies.
Don't forget the lunar cadmium mines!
Give the moon a brief nod.
The moon's light frames your shadow against the rooftop.
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Fuck the moon, it never did anything for me.
And what have you done for the moon lately?
I don't think about the moon much at all.
In fairness, the moon doesn't think about you either.
Touch your face.
You're cool to your own touch.
A preview of coming attractions.
How many moons like this do I have left? (Proceed.)
A great question to consider when you're alone again.
You hear the surprisingly light tread of Ignatz returning.
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Taking in the whole picture.
One photo wasn't enough?
I'm just doing my job.
Is this your job, though?