I look up.
“The moon is foggy,” I say.
“How can the moon be foggy?” he asks, “The sky, is foggy.”
No I am pretty sure the moon is foggy. It hides all our secrets so we can be dewy-eyed and child-like for a fistful of hours.
Just like I am sure you can queue up for fifty minutes for something that isn’t even free. You can get drunk on happy, on babbles, and splash and spill huge ripples of laughter all over the front of your shirt. You can take slow cool sips of the night caught on a sensationally blue fire (because if you drink it down too quickly it goes straight into your blood and burns and burns hard), add just a drop of twinkle and cheek to spice things up, taste the cookie in bOOkstOres, eat music, song by song, nibble drawling heart-rending voices trying to escape, go blind and get high, flap your wings, fly on guitar strings and meditative piano keys, listen to very loud goofy smiles (paired with unglamorously muddied feet), and dance to the image of sticky fingers covered in chewy peanut butter and chocolate fudge ice cream.
(I hope we never grow up, just grow in colours, become walking stirring paintings.)