You take a moon into the bath so it will float above your head. In the dim light of forever you feel like you have met your match. A moon is a therapist, an electric stove, a footrest, a lover. A moon is inside of you and outside of you and nowhere at all. You think nothingness would be a welcome feeling, everything is about maximalism these days, about clutter, about feelings, especially if they are pink. So you pick up a moon. You go to the nearest lighthouse. You project extinct things across the waters so everybody knows they are back, the moons have reappeared, not because of science or chemicals but because of light, these days everyone is always looking for light. A line of rocks crust the shoreline, from far away it is a circle. A seagull buries itself in the sand and sinks, it scoops out a burrow in the ground, it is gone but leaves a grey-white feather behind. Everything is a circle. You have a choice to be a circle or four diagonal lines, they give you two flashing buttons like a choose-your-own-adventure game, one button is red and the other is green. You chew a plum until it crunches. The birds are plunging around in their nests and the water is a circle, the seasons are singing in their quest to become a circle, they salsa, hips swaying, they do the tango, you salsa, you lie back down, hands cupped, nothing is a circle. And now you are sitting in a bath. The bathwater is at your chin, your hair is crumble-fine, it is warm – you are in a lighthouse, your tongue tastes like salt – you are in a circular room, the floorboards wooded, the moon is happy. The moon smiles. At the end of everything you are still a singular you.