Last night I had a dream I went fishing on the moon. Instead of emptiness the craters were filled with iridescent pools, milky like the galaxy. White sturgeon, but not like you think, swam through the shimmering expanse. They glowed with a lunar light, everything did— white light, clean, contained, calm, uncorrupted. Every placid swish of their tails stirred the strange waters, the small disruptions causing a sputtering of sparks.
My line was made of star dust. One cast and it shot through space like the trail of a shooting star. The moon fish didn’t care much, suspended indifferently in those deep craters. The craters’ depths ran out of sight, possibly tunneling all the way to the other side, where darkness and mystery presided, all the intersecting ways, meeting and criss-crossing at the core, so the moon was more liquid galaxy than space rock.
As incredible as a fishing trip it was, I grew tired with the clinical perfection and packed up my cosmic tackle to explore the dark side, which hopefully was in possession of a little more adventure.