A trip to the moon is once glorified in a series of preposterous misfortunes such that the moon did not descend itself but scurries itself higher into the cosmic futility of one's grounded ambitions.

i may have lost faith unto my idealism and romance of the far side riverbank where roses bloom everlasting of such bright exuberance in youthful dreams and woodlands imagination that can not decay unto the doom of a failure but yearn that my tomorrow wouldn't gallop itself into  the hole of the dark tunnel but would reach the light in its end.

i'm going back to sleep and wish myself a good night and a good life so by the morning after
; i'm now prepared to receive the beginning of the end.