You ever find yourself surrounded by cosmic noise, listening for a glimmer of sense? Like when the radio crackles in the void, searching for the honeyed voice of the familiar? The universe spins its yarn, you sit at the spinning wheel, hoping for a tapestry you understand.
Once, I remember, shoes off, toes digging in the pale grass, we’d chant to the stars, carve constellations into the midnight canvas with our drunken dreams. But time has a way of unraveling even the best of cosmic stitches.