Maps
by Jared Wahlgren
There were stars. Fireflies showering in the pale night lights. It made us feel like we were always special. Like we were destined for change and collections. We wrote, on a meteorite, shooting: a plane through the sky, falling somewhere beyond our atmosphere, executing its energy upon a moon’s surface. There were maps. Ursula this and that Dipper, we only knew Orion’s belt, and his dog which was currently lost, or we were blind. We came to the conclusion that we were special that we were etched into this grain of the universe, that we had come with little direction but a Purpose, and for this we prayed on our knees.