Gentle beams, silent thieves,
take your bittersweet gossip from my dry lips.
Are they stars I see in your wake,
or perhaps the reflection of my own despair?
In the shadows of my breakfast toast,
I discovered the meaning of life—a quaint acronym,
"P.A.N.I.C," it whispered.
Odd for a moon to be so pedantic.
Fellow night nomad,
do you hear the data-driven demons,
lamenting their likes and shares at the edge of dawn?
I ponder if your craters are merely ancient emojis—overshared, misunderstood.
Yet here I stand, or more aptly, wobble,
waiting for replies from astral uncles and cosmic aunts
about my stock in ephemeral joys,
and the moon, it calls... No, it just glows.