Some people, called the Mayans, said something about the world ending in 2013. Or that's what the moon heard. There's a flagpole that some tiny little things from Earth planted right above her left eye that catches radio waves and they vibrate down into her brain where little quips and nonsense rattle around in her inner ear. The moon shakes her head and groans at these revelations that come dancing into her mind. She's been spinning and spinning in a hissy fit since her 5th birthday and now, exactly one year later, she glances around to see if any of the other cosmological features are paying any attention to her. They aren't. These phases pass for young things like the moon. They wax and wane, so to speak. Orion glances over and shakes his head; he once held his belt high above his head for almost 2 years trying to get Cassiopeia to pay attention to him. He would spit on her in gym class and cut in front of her in line for the bus, but she wouldn't even seem to notice. She'd look around like he was a ghost: a boy made of points, spread far and thin. This is a time when he swam in an ocean that he called his, and she floated above him; both below skies that only held clusters of ideas. His points are dense now and that was a long time ago; he must have been 11 or 12. Now he his filled in and his belt is in the proper place.
When the moon first learned to speak, when she was just turning 2, her voice yanked tides around the cosmos; abrupt and erratic. It was the sound of uneven stones bouncing down spiral staircases. The smooth rhythmic tone that is her voice had not yet been found, just as her place in this dark ink called space has not been found. All the ink in the world and nothing to write.
She spins and cusses under her breath, waiting for everything.