Christopher Walken and Stephen King are stuck in Stranded in a Lunar Base and forced to have a deep conversation.

"This moon dust, see, it gets *everywhere*, Chris. Like regret, only grittier," Stephen King said, his eyes scanning the desolate landscape.

Walken paused, his gaze distant. "Regret... yes. It's a... a rhythm. Like a bad heart. Boom. Boom. Boom. Keeps you *alive*."

"But does it let you *live*, Christopher? That's the rub, ain't it? This place... it's the ultimate blank page."

"Blank pages... they can be... beautiful. Or terrifying. Depends... on the *ink*." Walken slowly turned a piece of lunar rock in his hand.

King chuckled, a dry, crackling sound. "Ink's made of blood up here, I reckon. Either yours, or the reader's."

"Blood... yes. It tells a story. A very... *loud* story. But is it the *true* one?" Walken asked, his voice a low murmur.

"Truth is a fickle thing, Chris. Like a penny in a wishing well. You toss it, but who knows where it lands?" King shrugged, pulling his collar tighter.

"Landing... is everything. The *impact*. The *silence* afterward." Walken fixed King with an unsettling stare.

King sighed. "Silence... the scariest sound in the universe, ain't it? Enough to drive a man mad."

Walken nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "Madness... is just another... *perspective*. On the landing."