Lets all write a one take about the moon...

Lets all write a one take about the moon. A one take is a poetic stream of consciousness spewing forth from the mind without censor or retrospect. essentially. Write about the moon.

Fuck you, I'm not doing your creative writing homework for you.
Was about to write some moving ass text before I realized the dubious end game of your hidden hand.

anywhere can be paradise as long as you have the will to live. after all, you are alive, so you will always have the chance to be happy. as long as the sun, the moon, and the earth exist, everything will be all right.

Whenever I see the moon, I remind myself of my dead mother. She was shot by some nigger and the useless nigger policeman could not identify the murderer. I hate niggers.

Scowl at the moon, my man, because the moon (as you well know) is made of cheese and what does cheese do to us but clog our bowels and make stink our breath and therefore at the moon we must scowl and nevertheless on it goes rolling cratered ancient and dead around like a great corpse like a great gray mausoleum falling down on top of our heads all the time and always only narrowly missing us and this is of course the reason we fear ghosts because the big moonskull oozing cheese comes zooming over our heads day in night out and sometimes gets the idea to make off with the day like with death of Christ and bodies roaming the street peddling their charcuteries with fromage and wine pairings as the terror-stricken women run screaming with their children and "smoked gouda, two shekels" cry the ghouls and that's leaving out all the women comparisons breasts buttocks womb mons rolling around many moons ever unloving ever far away woman is death is cheese is fear all aging all calcified and frozen to dust entombed in crystalline heaven music and empty space. There's much of man in the moon, my man.

i have no agenda other than admiration of creativity

moon
moon
give me the poon
moon
moon
ur mums a coon

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Thou chosen sister of the Spirit,
That gazes on thee till in thee it pities...

Alright, well I was writing something up anyway. Here. I got a little carried away:

Do you see it?

There; right before you--
The dim yet gleaming pond
under moonlight that you've found?
Lucky too, as cirrus clouds surround the
silver spoon dipping in the tarn.
Gentle may it be, still ripples form--
The stars among its welkin grip
dripping to their home.

Purple grasses cover blackened stones
lapping up the basin.
The susurrus breathing whispers
brushing against your skin.

Do you feel it?
The frigid mountain wind
slipping off of frozen peaks
which whisk the wispy clouds?
As distant air and eagle shrieks
prick the quiet with their sounds--
Do you hear it?

Kneel beneath the bristlecone,
between two blue bugles.
Dip your fingertips down, below
the icy water's black-crown hue,
strewn with star and studded moon.
Glide them through the lunar elixir--
superpositioned in mountainous fixture--
and suddenly smell honesty's perfume.

Mountain air fills your lungs
as clouds soon cover moon,
and darkness resumes--

Did you see it?

stream of consciousness is the worst