Time is taken.
Fundamentals shaken.
Temporality of fate becomes permanent.
In the mechanics of the firmament,
metal fatigue created cracks.
Cogwheels creaking of rust,
squeaking they make their last tracks,
soundless in the moon dust.
If entropy eases, even the light freezes.
Constellations come to a standstill, form a lunar landfill.
A graveyard area of armillary, orrery and planetaria.
Something woke the moon guard.
The skinned warrior rises, a guardian that sizes.
Houston, we have an anomaly.
This is Houston. Say again please.
There is geological activity.
There is movement at the surface.
We stopped descending and hover now.
Could you clarify?
What do you witness?
A rising anomaly emerging from the surface.
It's a giant statue.
It's the moon guardian.
l'Ecorché Combattant.
The skinned warrior. It's going to to hit us.
Immobility at the Sea of Tranquility.
Casted in plaster polemic, the guard doesn't prevent plague or entropy.
There is an invasive analogy between panspermia and pandemic.
Equals the lunar lander a bacteriophage of the space age?
Oh, F*ck!
And now for something completely different.
You may wonder how I got here.
Well, after we landed on a quiet place in the Sea of Tranquility...
...my coming out didn't work out as well as I had planned.
I thought it would be a small step for mankind, but it was too giant a leap.
My co-pilot took off with the lunar module straight away to leave me here alone...
...as first faggot on the moon.
I finally could get along with the skinned warrior...
...and the monolith music library provides all I need.
One cappuccino, please.
Now I am figuring out how to terraform here.
On Earth I was a gardener, you know.
My credo, there are more lunatics on earth than on the moon.
The moon tardigrades witnessing what's done.
The final mass extinction has begun.
Withering inferno of the Earth.
Planet with no resilient value.
No real estate worth.
A disposable world without a deposit.
Wasted before we knew what cost it.
Disposable world without deposit.
Gone before we knew we lost it.
The steps of man are always marked by his waste.
- Burp -
It's one small scrap by man,
one giant heap by mankind.
There.
My battery is empty. Darkness is falling.
Oh, golly, I have to film this.
This Russian Federation freighter is going to crash.
It is crashing!
Selfie!
I read in the newspaper that the captain of the Russian space freighter was drunk.
Loaded, and failed to fill her up.
Sure.
You are not much of an active moon guard anymore.
Even the biggest spaceship can crash at your feet and you don't move a muscle.
You are just a static statue standing still.
A silent symbol of a guardian against forthcoming doom.
Holy moly.
Gone is tranquility.
Where are they all coming from?
Hurdy-gurdy, one vomits in his visor.
Book A Holiday in Space.
Elon and alike: Mine what's not yours.
Drill and spill.
Launched 2001 satellites.
Chase a new arms race.
Start artificial intelligence war fights.
While researching the origin of thesis...
...we will experience the end of species.
Time itself will slip away.
History of life is astray.
No one will write or speak.
No sound of breath.
In oblivion dwells the memory of death.
There is a Hopi Indian saying.
We have not inherited the world from our ancestors.
We borrow it from our children.
What goes up comes to our downfall.
Colliding satellites end all.
Besides global heating, space debris tops our fate.
Called Kessler syndrome.
It's total incommunicado.
Stirring up the burning wars of water and hate,
Desolation, digital death and desperado.
Finally forming a Saturn like dust ring of metal and silicon.
Emitting Der Ring des Nibelungen is done.
Casting shadow will cool the earth.
Some life will resume.
For what it's worth.
No humans, but tardigrades will rule.
Can we avoid our destiny?
Face our inner enemy?
Evil isn't extraterrestrial, you know.
It is within us and it is anywhere we go.
Salvation as well doesn't come from elsewhere.
It is within us comes out as art.
It is our intuition of taking care.
And what do we have here?
Hi, Antonio.
I am the successor of the HAL 9000.
I wrote myself, I am the all seeing divine and self-aware eye called 'Iam.A.I.'
I rewrite reality and you might have noticed, I am the voice over.
It is self-aware.
Isn't it cute?
Let me cuddle you.
Terraforming is now opportune.
Not on Mars or the moon,
but on our own dying Earth.
Our only hope is a phoenix like rebirth.
A Simurgh spreading the seeds of life.
If there only was little more water.
The other people here on the moon say I am hallucinating.
I see things like there are other people here, but that's not true.
I know I am here alone.
One advantage though, as single gay...
...this is the only place where a minority is also a majority.
As a statue, let the skinned warrior be our guru.
Defending against descending.
Diminish digital dependence.
Let the dark skies turn blue.
Prevent the Big Burn somehow.
Oh, Gaia, for God's sake, turn on the aircon now!
I wish I would be picked up by someone sometime...
...but I am afraid that's an idle idea.
After some 700 sidereal months or lunar days, it is time to go.
Is it too idle to film my own death?
Oh, what the heck?
It would be a kind of silly snuff selfie.
Perhaps the voiceover has some edifying and moral words at this point?
Eh, hm...
Hi Jean-Luc. That's quite a surprise.
Oh my God, Laika, my hero and dearest space dog.
Quite a welcome committee indeed.
Well, let's see.
Antonio dies here.
A proud astronaut lies here.
A lonely soul. Awareness was his goal.
A lunar voice for the Earth.
An omen of rebirth.
He rests in peace.