It was sorting hour in the interstellar mail room, and several of the workers were chatting amongst themselves as they sifted through the piles of letters.
"They go by so many different names; I can never keep them straight," one fellow said to his colleague.
He was referring to the Sun and the Moon, who received the most mail of all the stars. Each day after everything was sorted, chariots emblazoned with a glowing silver nebula, the logo of the interstellar postal service, would race across the sky to deliver the droves of letters. The white lines that criss-cross the blue backdrop of daytime are only exhaust trails about half the time; if you looked closely at the other half, you’d see stamps dotting the white paper trail.
But back in the mail room, the workers were busy all hours of the day and night. They worked by the light of the Sun’s fiery rays and the Moon’s glimmering silver pools.
The people of earth knew the Sun and Moon by many different names, and each culture had a unique relationship to the rulers of the sky. This made the job of the interstellar postal workers distinctly difficult, for although they tried to keep a master list of names for reference, new civilizations and societies were always coming up with other ways of addressing the Sun and the Moon.
When Gods came into play the whole algorithm of sorting became that much harder. Some of the letter-writers believed the Sun and the Moon to be gods, while others admired them as the parents of the natural world. Some approached them as scientific phenomena of hot plasma and cooled magma, and still others reduced them to “shiny balls:” a not altogether inaccurate description sent in by a giggling twelve-year-old boy. And every so often a Moon-cheese believer would write in, invariably with the same question: “Swiss?”
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