When I still wanted to be an astronaut It is large, and for all I know, solid above me. It is a black or a blue that could be confused with black. There is a lot, but no more than my eye can take in. Small points of light scattered on the surface do not provide depth and do not exceed their pinprick boundaries. They say, "I'll live with you, but I don't have to talk to you." They do not have time to twinkle. The sky is small enough to carry anywhere, and beautiful enough to want to. we carry it on our backs and shoulders. letting it go to look up makes me feel like I am going to fall upwards and find out if my scream would resonate forever or be cut off by the sound of my neck breaking with a snap when I hit the flat fucker like a period at the end of the last sentence in a short book. I doubt I'd penetrate. The sky's not thin sheet with poked holes like a diorama or toy planetarium I had when I still wanted to be an astronaut. Nothing thin holds that much light back. Viewed like this, its more like a wall than a ceiling, one that extends far enough in each of its four directions for us to think it does not end. But I know it does. Nothing flat goes on forever. With this in mind, I want to break it. Throw a rock and have it shatter, so I can see what's behind it, because it is beautiful and belongs to everyone, and I want to be the one who ruins it. Because I never have time to count all the stars I see. My breath-long memory of the sky changes. Only the brightest star stays fixed distracting me long enough for the other stars to vanish uncounted. So there is only one I am sure of. Last night, I counted shooting stars. One. Two. Three.
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