the moon was just over half full, and he watched it as it floated above, suspended in place while the earth moved with each of his steps. The trees surged and fell with his feet, but the moon was unmoving. Yellow and unmoving. He stared at it until he was sure the image had etched itself into his pupils, a yellow fleck - not quite a circle; a curious fleck of light at which people would stare and ask about, and he’d reply, It is the moon! It is the moon! He wanted to be yellow and unmoving. Yellow and unmoving; It is the moon! He’d stolen the moon.