Of this vast, radiant universe, I am of but one star. Would the panoply be precious strewn were not each glimmer a signal of richness? Of the multitude of criaturas on this round world, I am but one being. Would humanity be a proud species were not each a beacon? I count my cells, my breaths, my sunrises and sunsets, my schemes and dreams, my depths and feelings, my world that I take up and embroider. Each human is created from other humans, each star from stars. I have craved to be more human, more starry. I let it be and the riches without are become within. I beg no more. Let me digest what I partake in.
Those indiscretions I was so careful to demur, they are for the taking. The paltry world bursts into color. My so-called evil is humane life. Everything is good like it should be. My heart grows in this soil. The evil name-calling drove me to starving; I was desperate enough to take what ill-suited me. What suits me is enough; perhaps everything in its own place.
Universe, thank you for the flash flood that canceled the trains that got me back to the metro where I find myself as the sunlight streams sitting behind two young friends one with a freckled shoulder bare but for straps, black chemise over scarlet bra, and a head whose mane is wild multi-colored orange, and the other saying “I have seen a lot of things, too…” from the back of her neck’s tatoo.