Leon, who has rented an Airbnb, standing in front of a row of blue vases on a shelf, staring at the second from the right. 

LEON (mutters to himself):  Why is that shade of blue so insanely beautiful?

Silence.

LEON:  I mean, fuck the vase—it’s the blue!

As he stares, a figure becomes visible next to him, likewise fixated on the vase.  The figure is naked, his proportions like those of ‘The Thinker’, his skin a pale blue.  Leon is startled and jumps back.

FIGURE:  Oh, you see me.  All right.  So that happened.

LEON:  Get out of here!

FIGURE:  Yes, yes.  Calm down.  I don’t want to leave, so I’m going to explain.  I don’t know if you’ll believe me.

LEON:  I’m just a guest, not really here.  Please.

FIGURE:  Give me a second.  Open your mind.  Now.  Look at the vase.  It’s okay.  Look at the vase like you were.

Leon stares at the figure who smiles and shows his hands in a peaceful gesture.  Slowly, fighting his instincts, Leon takes his eyes off the figure and looks again at the vase.

FIGURE:  Now:  I was once that shade of Cerulean, and I will be again someday, I hope. 

LEON:  Your skin was once that color?

FIGURE:  No.  I was that color.  (Pointing to the vase). I was right there.  But they move us through the blue spectrum.  To keep us fresh, I guess.  Because we each, in sustaining the exact hue, the archetype, are like Atlas holding up the world.

LEON:  This is…?

FIGURE:  How things work.  I’ve been midnight blue, and indigo, and now they’ve got me as robin’s egg.  I see the trend—getting paler and paler.  But I was happiest as Cerulean, most at home, so I still come back sometimes and, I don’t know…

LEON:  You’re the genie of the vase?

FIGURE:  Wow, you are…Fuck the vase!  The vase doesn’t matter.  I could be a roll of blue masking tape.  What matters is the archetype!  And the archetypal Cerulean happens to be that glaze, a few molecules thick.  

LEON:  So you’re kind of reminiscing, like, reliving…?

FIGURE:  I mean, I’m not proud of this behavior.  They tell us that every shade is beautiful, don’t look back, be in the moment…

He lowers his head and thinks.

FIGURE:  But yes, I’m skiving off, because the ideal robin’s egg is the paint on a car inside a garage with the whole family away.  ‘Robin’s egg’–more like corpse blue. 

He smacks his own cheek, and recites as if indoctrinated:

FIGURE:  No, every shade is beautiful!

LEON:  Why do you think you were happiest as Cerulean?

FIGURE:  I could feel I was vibrating at the perfect speed.  When I shone out from that vase.

LEON:  Huh.  And did it matter to you if someone was looking?  Was it different in any way?

FIGURE:  Absolutely not.  I took in some of the light, and gave most of it away.  Just outward, outward in general. 

LEON:  How do you feel as the other blues? 

FIGURE:  Not quite myself.  Either hyper, almost out of control.  Or else weak, like my blood’s turned to water.  Now let me ask you a question.   How did I make you feel?

LEON:  I don’t know if I was here for you.

FIGURE: That’s right, you all change too.

LEON:  But as far as the color….  These things are hard to talk about face-to-face.  (Pause.) There’s something about this exact shade that’s perfect for me.  Maybe it’s slightly darker than the others, I’m not sure.  For me, it has more power, more… 

The Figure thinks about this.

LEON:  Do you know who’s taking your place in there?  I mean, on there.

FIGURE:  Some dunce, some doofus.  I’m kidding, it’s one of my colleagues, I don’t know which, but I have nothing but respect. 

LEON:  It’s got to be tough to see that.

The figure shrugs. Silence.

LEON:  They say orange is your complementary color.  Any truth to that?

The Figure gets an erection, which he quickly covers. 

FIGURE:  I’m sorry.

LEON:  Well, this has been great…

FIGURE:  Give me a second.  Okay?  Please.  Just look over there.

Leon turns his back and stares into the far corner of the room.  The Figure talks strictly to his penis, which eventually deflates.

FIGURE:  Okay.  Forget that happened.  We’re good.

Awkwardly now, the two stand side by side again, looking at the vase.  The figure sighs.

FIGURE:  What I said about the viewer not mattering.  There was one exception.  Isaac Newton. Our most passionate disciple.  We all loved him.  Many a time I shone directly into the face of Sir Isaac Newton.  Into those retinas, into the blue receptors, and the even subtler ones that were like champagne flutes for what I had to offer.  (Pause). I remember the fervor of Isaac Newton–peering, straining his eyes, and smiling, even laughing.

LEON:  Sometimes I stand here and I want to go crazy.  I don’t know what to do beyond seeing.  How do I get closer to that color?  What do I do with it?

FIGURE:  I’m not the one to ask.  I don’t know that separation. 

LEON:  What about now?

FIGURE:  True.  You’re right.  There is a…helplessness. 

LEON:  Sometimes you can see something from a distance, and then walk into it.  Like the ocean. Or the woods.  But not here.

FIGURE:  No, not here.  (Pause). I don’t know if I’ll ever come back to Cerulean, or just keep moving forward, into the green, the yellow…

LEON (hanging his head):  I guess I can’t keep haunting this.

FIGURE:  Well, how long do you stay here?

LEON:  Another week.

FIGURE:  You’re lucky.  Most views are fleeting.

LEON:  You’re right. You’re absolutely right.  I’ll have three weeks total.

He looks from the figure to the vase and back again.

LEON:  Listen.  Every shade is beautiful.  I really do believe that.

FIGURE:  So do I.  I gotta say, the blue in the center…has something.  All right.  Take care.  Nice meeting you.

LEON:  Nice meeting you too!  Take care!

The Figure fades, growing paler and paler, but the after-image is Cerulean. 

“…the moon pours down its pale enchantment.” – Baudelaire

The full moon shines on a cluster of apartment towers overlooking the sea.  Agatha, Beth, and Sam sit on the upper balconies of different buildings.  Agatha is in her late 80’s, in a wheelchair, deep into Alzheimer’s.  Beth is in her early 50’s.  Sam, curly-haired, with glasses, is 16.

MOON:  Knowing you suffer in silence, I want to catch up with each of you, if you choose.  But first I have to ask—what is going on down there?  Wildfires on every continent, 100 degrees Fahrenheit in Siberia, methane released from the thawing tundra, the virus in its fourth wave…

Silence.

BETH:  Horrible.

SAM:  To be honest, none of it is real to me.  I’m vaccinated. 

AGATHA:  I no longer receive this kind of information. 

MOON:  Right, but Beth and Sam—I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a month like this.

Silence.

SAM:  What do you want me to say?!  I’m not responsible for this!

BETH:  One way or another, we’re doomed.

Silence.

AGATHA:  If I could start.  There has been a change.  As you know, I have only myself, and that doesn’t include my brain.  So my organs have become like pets to me.  Like a little group of poodles. I know exactly what’s going on with each.  I watch them function.  I feel the life in them.  I’ve named them.  This is new.  I wanted to tell you.  And thank God the problem is not in my organs.  My favorite right now, if I’m honest, is the liver.  I never drank much, and he is really a champion.  He has a kind of kingly quality.  And I thank him for his service.  I can’t walk my organs in distance, but I can walk them in time.  I choose one, and concentrate, we are there together, and we go for a walk.

MOON:  So this is a good thing.

AGATHA:  This is a very good thing.  I feel like I’m getting out.  Seeing the street, smelling the trees…

MOON:  I’m happy for you.  That’s wonderful.

BETH:  I’m happy for you.  Keep going.

SAM:  Here’s something not so wonderful.  It’s boiling, so I wear shorts. But I hate my legs and feet.  If I wear sneakers, my legs look too skinny. If I wear flipflops my feet are small and white.  So I walk everywhere in socks, even the parking lot or the street.  My socks get black and stuck with gravel.  My father worries I’m disturbed.  I can see it doesn’t make sense:  if people would think I was a freak because of my legs, they would think I’m even more of a freak for walking in socks.  At least my calves look better, they have a little more shape.  I know I’m making a mistake, and getting a reputation as a weirdo, but fuck it.  Look:

He raises his leg and shows his foot in a white sock that has become black with tar and dirt.  Silence.

BETH:  It was a bad month of eating.  Pasta and cheese and ice cream.  Chips.  Everything, no limits.  I sucked the nectar out of each thing, and I hit the pleasure center of my brain again and again, jabbed it, then kept my finger down.  I don’t give a fuck.  You know why?  Because relationships are over for me.  There won’t be another one.  I can’t do it.  Every once in a while you read about someone who eats till they burst.  One guy sat down in front of a Grand Union, ate everything in his bags, and ruptured his stomach.  If that’s me, that’s fine.  I’d like to splatter myself all over the last motherfucker.

AGATHA:  I hope you won’t do that, dear. 

SAM:  There are fat free and low sodium versions of everything, that taste just as good, my father says. 

Silence.

MOON:  I wish I could do something for you!  That’s my curse, I guess.  To be so close and yet so far.  If any of you liked swimming in the ocean, I could certainly create a nice high tide for you.  But other than that…Does anyone have any thoughts?

Silence.

AGATHA (to Beth):  I like the fan you’re using to cool yourself.  Is that Japanese?

BETH:  Yes.

AGATHA:  What are those figures?

BETH:  The long-legged birds?  Cranes, I think.  In the reeds, the marshes…

AGATHA:  I wouldn’t want to live inside it because of the constant opening and closing, but it’s lovely.  Sam, you have nice hair.  You’re a handsome young man.

SAM:  I disagree, but thank you.

BETH:  Nerd-chic, I think they call it.  Don’t worry, it’ll work.

MOON:  Anyone else?  No?  Please think about each other this next month.  And remember our agreement:  no one will do anything to hurt themselves until we meet again.  Okay?  And when we meet, you’ll talk about the thoughts, and any plan you might’ve made.  Does everyone agree? 

Agatha agrees first, Beth last.

MOON:  All right.  And now, you lovers of the moon, please, enjoy!

They each look at the bright disc and bask in the pure light.