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.