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.