A lone star, positioned high against a dark velvet sky, blinks bright. It’s the type of sky usually witnessed in the desert, a sudden inky spill of night. The blackest of black. In silent joy you witness your surroundings, the tall, dusty grasses clumped together like vague distorted things, the croaking of toads in the distance, the dream like ease of being. Silver slivers tease. Involuntarily you reach toward the heavens, convinced that should you choose, the lone star is yours to take.