The structures that now adhere to an erstwhile rubble-mound were a dream I had epochs ago when I gazed from our station orbiting Neptune outside the Adams Ring with one eye closed like a cyclops through my telescope. If the rifts and crags are poems scrawled across the so-called surface of the moon, my greenhouses are diacritics and vowel marks that allow them to be deciphered. The sprawling atmosphere machinery is calligraphic accretion and wheezes rhythmically like the bellows of an accordion in time with a truncated metrical pattern.
As with the other inner moons, I ship the vegetable matter to Triton, vacuum packed on automated airless shuttles. I haven’t heard anything back for over eighty-six thousand passes around Neptune.
