Months pour like golden water down a large drain shaped like a wide-open mouth, days swirls in bubbles riding the surface of the downward flush, minutes and seconds and moments to remember are simply shadows, reflections, and shimmering flashes of light that disappear rapidly upon this undulating flow.
String-light stars hover every visible night like a web that either holds back the inky black or contains the gaudy neon, halogen, and fluorescent distractions this planet expresses outward. That connection between the stars, the invisible force that holds them steady in their positions, anchors me to this ground, presses me against the strata, makes my blood work harder on the return to my heart, spins my possiblities in life around, charted on the familiar face of my compass.
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