I want to see the stars.
Not the bullshit couple-of-stars-over-the-suburb, but the real stars, the raw stars.
The squeak and groans of a 20 year old truck door being open and shut
as it hums to heat the occupants who shift in and out of warmth
the dirt road curving around the mountain
the city lights in the distance, too far to pollute with light
the silhouette of hulking peaks, distinguished by their blackness in a thick blue sky
the grinding crunching sound of dirt beneath rubber soles
the cold of rough granite upon the nape of the neck
the clouds of white frost that are exhaled on chilly mountain nights
the valley below, as if the whole world is beneath your feet
the sharp outline of trees against the sky
the curving heavens,
awesome and incomprehensible in their magnitude,
that hold a thousand million twinkling stars.
I live for those cold nights where I am dwarfed by reality,
the whole of it,
in its infinite glory.


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