There is a fountain on the moon, nestled beside a tiny hill.  Like a black hole (and perhaps it is), the fountain ensnares the sunlight that touches it (making it invisible to satellites and the like), collecting the light as liquid.  And when the moon waxes, becoming the blackest black you could imagine, He comes crawling across the lunar sands on hands and knees, thirsty for the cool moonlight, and drinks it dry.  Then, before the light returns, He slinks back to his observatory beneath the hill—to watch us, and to whisper to us, as He has always done.