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.