“If you’re wearing a space suit, I’ll take a unicrescent sandwich; hold the mayonnaise—and the moon. (But don’t hold it in your hands.) Let us dance like the moon is hollow and inhabited by beings of light who give off enough energy so I can be a night nudist.”

“I want a sexual innuendo sandwich, hold the mayonnaise.”

“Really, Rachel looked like a sun, bright and exuding energy, holding us two moons in a parallel orbit by the sheer force of her will. ”

“Dance me slowly along a moonlit path,Soaked with light from moon and stars above,Hold my hand and whistle a tune,Dance me slowly to the edge of Love.Waltz here with me on forest grass,Soft ballet pirouettes round sun dappled trees,Hold my hand and hum a tune,Catch my freshly blown kiss off the breeze.”

“And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.”

“But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen; they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness. The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands. The autumns trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the shore.”