I'm bobbing for shooting stars in a sea of wishes with no answers. The space is filled with the names of Dead men. The eternally waiting. The lost. The well-documented lamentations have no face. No voice. They are themselves whispers. They are themselves angry last tones.
Memory stored and lost to the Milkyway...
Their stories make it hard to breathe here. My nose is filled with pressure. They're using up all the hope. There is little left for those here still spitting their wishes into the sky.
We're so simple. We save complications for thinking and driving ourselves crazy. Our wishes, we deduce, will save us from this cycle--from this logic. It only makes sense.
Every now and then the universe drops a wish out of the sky. The light is always so fantastic. When you're lucky, you'll see the wish of a dead man cascade across the night and have its chance to shine at last. When you're really lucky, there is still light. It brims from your coat pocket. All of your attempts to hold it are a failure like a polar bear's explanation of the aurora borealis or a scientist's explanation of a miracle.
Wanting affection
To find you
Is like Waiting for the rain drop
With your name on it
To reach Atlantis
