He sat, under the dark night sky, and thought aloud, speaking to some unknown person sitting beside him. He talked to her as if they had been friends for life, as if the topic at hand did not matter, only that they were talking, that any subject, no matter how taboo, would have created no discomfort between them. "The night sky," he said, sitting in the middle of a field, this person not at his side, "Is unspeakably beautiful, but I shall try my best to compare." He cleared is throat before continuing, not knowing what else to say. "Look at the moon, so bright as it is casts a shadow behind us, on the grass; it is like a light that will never fade, a light that will only cease when its partner, the sun, is no more there to shine upon the moon, and the moon shall be forever dark." He paused. "The stars, as they say, are not as they are, but as they were, so many millions of years ago; they show us their history, and leave their death to be viewed upon by all there to see." He fumbled his words a bit. "And the sky itself, a void in which nothing can fill, but is filled to the brim with so many things, big and small, dark and bright, that can not be seen, but only felt and imagined." He looked over, and saw nothing. He looked before him, and saw nothing. He looked back, and saw a shadow. He sighed a heavy sigh, a sigh of regret, of release, of return, and gazed upon the beautiful painting that was being drawn before, a painting millions of years in the making, ever so close to perfection, yet never near enough.
There was only he, and the sky, the stars, and the moon.
22 December 2004
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