And yes, he raises the moon on a crane and scrubs it until it shines. So what does it shine on? Nothing. Was there no one else? Left-handed truth, right-handed truth, there's no pure way to say it. The wind blows and it makes a noise. Pain makes a noise. We bang on the pipes and it makes a noise. Was there no one else? His hands keep turning into birds, and his hands keep flying away from him. Eventually the birds must land.