Often, I become obsessed with the moon. It usually happens when it’s been overeating glow-paint and cheese. How are you so colossal, yet when I cover you with my index you disappear? I jog to tire my body, to lose excess energy for the hope of sleeping tonight, and my sight is stolen, every time. I cannot look anywhere else for it is pupil dilating, to the extent that my irises outrank the moon in size and luminosity. The oddest thing about this habitual engagement, me and the moon sharing a staring contest, is that I feel like I am running towards it. Every spring fuelled step is a jump that pushes me higher and higher in to the sky, closer to my unblinking friend. But I don’t get closer, and that’s the funny old thing. I hate that I never get closer, but I always try to, knowing that I’m not going to. But it floods me with this feeling of security and wonder. Though the dimness that paves the evening offers only the reassurance that it’s possible something bad might happen, the moon is always there to catch your eye, and remind you that it’s unblinking and overprotective in its invariable moony way.