What Will You Have From Here, When You Are No Longer There?

I asked the moon how it looks so beautiful, how in the world is it even possible to always look so beautiful?

But it's a different kind of modest, likes-being-praised-but-doesn't-like-discussing-it sort modest. It said it has always been like this. People have come and people have gone. Ages ago they were praising it, ages later they would be feeling a stir when they look at it. But one day this particular fragment would end for you. Just like that, things would stop rolling. And wouldn't the whole question become redundant, if there would be no remainder, not even a quotient? So what would matter, what would remain? Which moments, which fame? Vulptous laughters, or shared pain? Feeling one with the universe, the solitary peace? Or would you prefer being someone's lobster, the belongingness abyss? As it played with those swaying clouds, it winked at me teasingly and asked, what will you have from here, when you are no longer there?