The punk performance artist I live with sends audio messages to one of my friends from my phone, which I only find later. In the messages, he's shouting, "Yes!" and "no!" and "maybe!", punctuated by silence. He wakes up and rummages around for his mask, settles for his cape, then discards it on the hallway floor when he's done. We have a fight about that and he weeps. He's so punk that he gives people fake names when introducing himself and takes conversations with strangers into weird and unexpected areas. He feels things deeply. Cries about a deflated balloon. On a walk, we study the new spring color of leaves and stop to pick up rocks of interesting shape and possible mysterious power we can scarcely understand. From his stroller, the artist looks high overhead and sees a barely visible object that I would have missed. Exclaims, "A daytime moon!"