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Look up

It’s those times when you’re craning your neck to stare up into the black sky from a hammock, wrapped in a woven white blanket belonging to your best friend, and everything smells like her and childhood and sun-warmed-grass-thats-now-cooled-in-the-dark and saltwater and damp, and the voices of the neighbors and the neighbors’ kids trickle up to your ears through the night in xylophonic trills of laughter, and the dogs are barking on the hill, and you can hear waves washing on the beach shore below, and your neck is aching and the hammock’s pressing lines into your bare legs but you can’t move because the houses lining the switchbacks of the streets that rise up from the beach are glowing like Christmas only it’s warm now, and across the water the three red lights on the airplane towers blink slowly on on on then off off off and again, again, and you breathe in deeply thinking that this moment is just too much to hold onto in its exquisite nothingness, too goddamn beautiful that it’s soul crushingly good even though you’re completely alone, and then a meteor tears a gash across the ink-black ceiling so bright you think you can see the gases burning and long enough that you really really see it so you gasp and whisper aloud to no one, wow, slightly startled by your own voice, and the neighbor’s kids’ voices trickle up through the dark, like the really high piano keys, like droplets of water pittering onto glass, and the dogs bark and the waves wash up and the houselights twinkle like lightning bugs with their lights stuck on, and you swear you’re going to write it all down, write it all make it all come out just like you see it and taste it and feel it, so deeply, so much it almost hurts, but you know it’s a lie because you never learned the words for this.

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