Shoot for stars but take your world with you.

A space-lost man knows that he is trapped in his mask.

He blows breath onto the visor despite dwindling supply, creating a thin mist reminiscent of snow telling the world it’s December.

There he sees the past reflected on a soft, soggy patch.

There he momentarily lives, knowing the end has finally arrived to pick him up at the airport.

Through the glass he sees eternity falling and the stars gasping for breath and black holes falling on their knees.

The end is cold.
Like hearts devoid of love.
He clutches it by the arm.

In his solitude, he feels for once a king. Claims his stake in this lonely universe orphaned by reason.

Beyond nebulae bursting into light is a celestial villa where the forgotten lives tax free and there he shall retire. So, it seems.

He leaves his footprints in the coarse, sandy darkness, where most dread to follow. He drifts away with nothing but himself and his regrets talking back to him. Telling him of tales lost.

Too late, he could flood galaxies with tears but nothing can reconnect him with his harness. Communication slowly breaking down.

He hears a blanket rustling and heavy footsteps and creaking floorboards. A squeaking valve. Running water trickling down. Yes, a tub. Yesterday and Yesterday had enough of him. Got tired of his hollow eyes. Devoid of a soul. He hears the door groaning. The bells chiming. Door slamming. Engine revving and growing fainter.

Under a looking glass he plotted constellations. There is life somewhere he pondered, but there was life where he stood. He just didn’t have eyes for it.

He shot for the stars and lost his sun in the process.