My home, the moon

The air in the bedroom tastes different.  To my imagination, it is the staleness of air
found in a seldom-used storage module on a space station, and it is cold
too.  The cargo is simply not worth
keeping warm.  The air is saturated with
water particles, causing untold damage to the equipment keeping me alive.  Here in my space, no-one can hear you scream,
as you get out of the bathroom, dancing involuntarily because my muscles are
trying to keep me warm, drying quickly on a towel before it becomes frozen stiff,
in a freezing cold storage module, in Beeston, alas. 

The tea I’m drinking is at least not recycled urine, and the
door outside if left slightly ajar won’t depressurize the van, boiling my blood
and sucking out my rather worthless possessions for the most part, out into the
street, which is not space itself but the retirement homes of 10% well-respected
old folk, and 90% others. 

Though this could be life on the moon.  I mean, you could chuck my van on the moon
and inside it would feel little different. 
I might appreciate the houseplants a little more, and get rather fewer
visitors.  There would be no crows on the
moon to peck on the roof at five in the morning, and no one to take away the
rubbish on a Wednesday.  But there are
plenty of craters on the moon to hide rubbish in.  I’d want a more substantial roof, of
course.  And a decent Internet
connection.  So, yeah, where do I sign?

What an escape to imagine.  In New Beeston (you can insert here all the
things you wouldn’t miss about life on earth), about 14 hours of the day would
remain unchanged.