The mists have descended upon the island. Sheets of rain fell from the sky last night. In the morning warm vapors rose from the ground. I’ve never seen such a mix of green in my life. It seems the entire island is bathed in its shades.

The bounce of the tired suspension as the taxi slogs through another pothole. The growl of loose metal from a sagging exhaust provides a soundtrack to the slow passage through mountainside mist.

Even as I close my eyes— I can place where we are on the road— I have spent many a lucid dream state in the back of these cars.

“I have to tell you something,” she said. The words echo as the lines on her face harden. What words could prove harder than those of grief?

I didn’t want to know—

Sitting on the steps of a torn down school— as if straddling a forgotten entrance to faerie, I listened to words that left the world in a ringing haze.

I leafed through an old notebook to stop upon a inky snippet—

“The outline of a shattered star,”

and a brief story of the cosmic rejects.

Time is a relative thing— an uncanny bastard when we think ourselves outside its purview.

Nothing is outside— nothing is static.

The solar system sees us in motion— and time sees that we travel forward— when life and space asserts that if you head down far enough, you will once again discover the sky.