May 31

1.30 am and I am staring up at the starlit sky.

There is nothing new to say, but I’ll try, the ego of the writer I suppose.

No, I won’t try. I will just briefly describe how I stood on the empty street looking up at constellations: bright needle punctures in the dark canvass; so beautiful and calm it sets the mind to rest for a moment. I wish I could look up more and notice and be at peace.

So I tried after all. Well, the stars make poets of us all, with its vastness goading our tiny human egos.