At night, we used to see stars. You could see by starlight back then, after the sun went down. Hundreds of headlights chained together in the sky, good enough to eat, good enough to write legends about, good enough to launch men at. You don’t remember because you were born too late. The voice was unavoidable and natural, like air, like weather. Maybe I underestimate you. Your head’s full of dreams. They must remember. Does any part of you still look at the sky and hurt?
