Adrift in the Clownstellations
Accomplishment or dream?
I walked between two of the bluer stars of Corona Borealis. Cornflower. Smalt.
It wasn't a dream: I heard stellar associations, streams playing in the vacuum. The unmetered beauty of the stars wasn't lost on me. I continued in a geodesic. My hand passed close to La Superba.
It wasn't me any more. Someone had thought to pack me a lunch for the dreary places behind the Hyades.
I have mounded up, and burnt, several futures. The moon sours in umbra. Which one? Good, no excellent question. I hadn't been behind the tricky spouts of the Great Red Spot to stare at the hanging klaxxons of the Coma Cluster of Galaxies ... no, not yet.
The stellar sequence will wait before plunging athwart our gratings, globulars are bashed garnets sometimes. Tonight, it's as if facts are gods.
The California Nebula trumps Toledo, Ohio, although almost anything can lay claim to that ability. Really. It's really you in Albireo's gold and blue glares, isn't it? I never really lost any of you.
No, a hotel. Vertices and vortices abound, nature hates a corner, at least one that lasts. Pin the tail on the Hertzsprung-Russell diagram.
I was disappointed to find the stars did not sport points, especially after the diffraction spikes had fooled me.