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Here on the moon each day is fourteen days long  and so is each night, though at the poles where we mine both those numbers are a little longer. In the day we chip ice from the bottoms of craters and pass it on up, floating it in ropes up to the mother ship before we load in and return to town.

At night after the end of harsh white light that makes us all look like cardboard cutouts, in the low-gravity that allows us to dance and spin in new ways and forms, with reduced density in our bones, we gather after a hard days' work and play music. In the thin artificial air the music has a tinny muted quality to it. We had some instruments from earth but they don't do so well here, so we use scrap metal and moon rocks and our voices. The moon missionary comes from earth to visit us and he tells us to abandon our instruments and our long nights of dancing but it is easy to hide from him.

Every moment we are being blasted with radiation and some of us die but others make it. We glow and grow third eyes and and the shapes of our bodies change and our earth bosses are frightened, which we like.  When earth people come sometimes they think we aren’t like them anymore and maybe we aren't. 

We we do not think we would do well on earth now, our bones have become long and hollow and eyesight rent with strange colors.  It is difficult to leave the moon but we have some dreams of it. Some galactic passersby discovered us a couple years ago and were cautious around us but we offered them a drink from our hooch and they warmed up to us, though some of them couldn't assimilate it, only swilled it around in whatever they all had to pass for mouths. They began to dress like us and we began to look to look like them, and we would dance to their music and they to ours, and they'd show us wonders from their worlds and ask us when we might be able to go and visit. We said not yet but soon.