I dreamed I was flossing a moon

I was standing on a cratered surface, the sky a deep indigo with no stars. In my hand was a strand of silver thread—thicker than my wrist, shimmering like liquid mercury. I was gently weaving it between the craters, pulling out tiny, glowing fragments of dust that had gathered over centuries. Each pass made a soft chime, like wind through glass bells. When I finished, the moon exhaled—a slow, warm breath—and for a moment, I felt its relief. I woke up with my fingers still tingling, as if I’d just touched something sacred. Not a dream about space, but about care. About cleaning what’s too big t