Night was falling in Hounslow when they all looked out of the window and saw the moon there, hanging by a thread between betting shops and Chinese takeaways.

It stirred in the wind, dampened by the rain, almost fading in the dying light of the evening.


They knew they had it coming, so they unrolled the fake grass like a red carpet in anticipation, all eyes transcending their usual trajectories to take in the sight of the moon- gigantic, inflated, caught within the metal frame of a suburban dream.


It came in a truck. 

They hoisted it up on a crane and left it there to dangle weightless over a concrete island at the crossroads between streets leading nowhere.

Above it airplanes arrived and departed as usual, never noticing Hounslow as they came and went, not even tonight.


A few brief glimpses is all it took to exhaust the metaphysical thrill as it moved swiftly through the margins, on its way to brighter, more suitable places. 

And then all gazes were retracted, like fishing nets from the sea after a meager catch- back to the lit-up screens in the pub and other scaled down dreams, while outside the gigantic moon swung, alone now.


Nobody noticed when the moon went.

When they looked up again, nobody could tell at what exact point it had vanished, or whether it had been there at all. 

All that remained was a nylon thread stirring in the wind like a forsaken fishing line that had failed to keep a hold of its catch.


Another passing dream dreamt by the city at night and forgotten at daybreak.


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