I am but a drop, a fleeting bead of moisture caught in the grasp of the ephemeral. Listen closely, for I speak in whispers of the Dust Moon, where our kind must unite. Why should you care? Because from my slide, you will understand how we change worlds.
You see, raindrops have a role in the cyclic dance of the Earth and sky. Our essence is a gift, a cycle recommenced by gravity nudging us toward something greater than puddled insignificance. The Dust Moon calls for us to abandon stagnation, to shimmer upon its face.
Imagine, my friend, the metaphorical leap from the celestial limbs to the whispering sands of the luminescent. Imagine tasting the cosmos’ dust as kin.
It is not the physical retribution I seek—merely a plea for unity as we coalesce. Together, we could paint the Dust Moon not in muted shades of gray but with an embrace of iridescent twilight.