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.