POET:No. No, we are not brothers. We are nothing alike. We have nothing in common. We have nothing to say to each other. In fact, my only constant wish through these years has been to free myself of you, to free myself of your garish presence and your narrow, narrow mind so I may ascend on a cloud of Fine Art to take my place in the heavens of human expression.
[POET has survived several austere months as a resident artist on the moon, when one day he spots something at the bottom of a huge crater. POET gathers all of his best writing and climbs down the crater.
At the center he finds a BEER-ALIEN surveying the horizon.
He approaches the BEER-ALIEN reverently, holding out his poems and stories in one hand, eyes averted, thinking to himself--Finally, I will be read. Finally, I will be understood...
The BEER-ALIEN takes the pages, leafs through them, and hands them back. He turns to face the Earthrise and burbles.]