as  we cross the mountain, we  can  walk 
 only  at night. long ago,  someone  here 
 must've angered the  sun,  and  today it 
 still burns  us strangely. but with  the 
 sunset  the air comes raining  back down 
 and  gets  thick  enough to  breathe. it 
 carries  with it  smells from  far away, 
 colourful sparks for the  imagination, a 
 sharp contrast  for  the stale  black of 
 the night.                               
 the others think  i'm young, they  don't 
 take  me  seriously  and  i  fear   they 
 snicker  a  bit.  you  usually  get  old 
 before  you learn  the trade  enough  to 
 take other  people. but  i do  lead them 
 safely     forward,     every     night. 
 however, currently  there  seems  to  be 
 something going  on ahead.  those around 
 the   corner   have  stopped,  shouting, 
 my greatest treasure, the                
 book of stars,   is  a   combined   map, 
 calendar and timepiece  as  long  as you 
 know what year it  is.  every page  is a 
 grid  of  nine starfields,  hand  drawn, 
 below which are  written coordinates  in 
 both  space and  time. a  lot  of  it is 
 applicable  on  earth,  but  not all. it 
 hints  of  other  places  -  some  stars 
 reordered,  some  names  i  have   never 
 heard.   sometimes    the   dates    are 
 those pages are exactly  what i scramble 
 for right  now.  i've stopped breathing. 
 i  sling  open the  book of  stars a bit 
 too quick, spilling all my notes on  the 
 ground. one lands on  my  foot, it  is a 
 drawing  of  a  muscle cow, but i  could 
 care less right now.                     
 for it seems  like there's a new moon in 
 the sky.