Colours of shite

There's all colours of shite pouring down at the moment between the jobbie, the Big Wan's teenage alienation, the neighbours' complaints and the capitalist economy.

Sometimes I would like to be the sole colonist of the Moon, and start all over again pure of construct and history. On the Moon, no one will own or manage others, or require of them duties. There will be no assumptions or expectations, no property and no currency. Time and labour will not be bought and sold. There will be no intermediary between need and supply, as need will must.

I'll have a small garden to grow moon veg and flowers, a hand-turned sewing machine to make fancy dress for my own amusement, and a cat for company, to give milk, and to keep me in my place. Given the lack of atmosphere to transmit soundwaves, language will be movement-mediated, and every word will be happy when it's a cartwheel or a handstand.