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I have my own theory about how the moon was made...
Back then, there was no moon. Oh, how I remember the cold nights and the hot days, and that time in the mornings where you were not quite sure if it was refreshingly cool or pleasantly warm and the delicate white flowers would open themselves to the waking sun.
They called him a god later on. He was always the storm to me, however; drawing me in with terrible force and leaving only wreckage behind. I think I loved him, but it is so hard to know for sure, now that he has passed. He certainly did not love me. He saved his love only for the heavens, the stars, and the massive engines that thundered up there every day.
He would never quite tell me what he was doing with those machines. He would find me in the evenings as I walked along the beach, when it was once again pleasantly warm, or perhaps refreshingly cool. He would wave his arms about as though conducting an orchestra, and he would grow so excited that he would grab me by the shoulders - oh, how beautiful his face was as he talked of his love to me.
"We're making the world," he would say, with the falling sun reflecting from his eyes. He would turn me around and point out all the stars to me, as the sky grew dark enough for them to be seen. "We'll be brighter than all the stars, so bright that even the sun won't hide us from sight!" I would think he was talking about him and me, and I would smile, and we would make love. Then he would sleep, while I lay and listened to the sound of the waves beside us - I laugh now, to think I called those ripples waves, but one must find humour where one can.
One evening he did not sleep. Even the passion of our lovemaking, with his body battering my shores, was not enough to quench him.
"It's nearly here," he said, and pointed out another star to me. "See that one? That one is ours. Soon we will change everything." He pointed that star out every time after that, and soon even I could see it grow bigger night by night. His prediction came true, and even during the day it could be seen dimly against the blue of the sky, if the sun was not too near. It frightened me, and it excited him so much that he could no longer make love, not to me - just a bolt of lightning on the sands of my body, and then he would only have eyes for his star. Oh, only his - it was never mine.
I thought it was only him I was losing. The star grew until it was the size of the sun itself, although pale and dim; and though you could see it during the day, it often set before long if it was caught in the sun. You cannot change the nature of a star completely, it seems. The water rose gradually, so that at first I did not notice it, but on the day he finally came to me again - he had not shown himself to me for days, spending all his thought on those engines of his - I did not share his excitement.
It was late at night, and I was crying. It was bright enough to see, with the new star fat and full above me. The beach was only a sliver of what it once was, the water had risen over all those precious flowers, and the sea was full of tiny white petals. He did not even see the tears.
"It's here! It's all done! Isn't it amazing?" He saw me looking at the sea, but I do not think he saw the flowers. I do not think he was capable of seeing anything so small. He explained to me how the sea would now rise and fall, but the reason was lost on me. I only knew that those flowers would never grow there again.
The nights are still cold, but the days are cooler now, too. The storm has passed, but the rain is here to stay.
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