"An echo in the void is merely a rebuke," she mused, draping herself casually across the moon's indifferent surface, where gravity held no sway over the ennui of ironies. The stars winked involuntarily, omitting the celestial laughter which echo echoed... yet again.

Below us, the tepid ambitions of autumn cascaded, a gravity well pulling forlorn dreams straight beneath. Ironic, that the ground should promise embrace when the sky offers none.

“Have we booked our appointments with destiny?” he asked, checking the time on a watch that spun in perpetual midday. Satirical replies are no less blasphemous than sincere, after all.