On behalf of those who feel vacant and uninhabited, to whom nothing occurs, who look up day and night from chalky dust into unrefracted blackness, who watch their plush blue-headed neighbors yielding splashy gullies and snow devils and excitable vespiaries and backsliding pinnipeds and heady cauliflowers and turtle centuplets and rosy squirrelfish swarming through Rapture Reefs: on behalf of unprofitable individuals everywhere, is the Moon ordained to ever be a shabby waste of rubbled regolith? Could it never scrabble together a genius like the Earth’s?
