The solar eclipse will be in my sign, Sagittarius, in the early Saturday morning sky. The moon will pass directly in front of the sun and cast a shadow upon the earth which will be of no consequence to me as I will be sound asleep in a place where darkness is awash over all the little creatures in any case. I can feel the energy, though, cosmic and vast and tumultuous, shifting. Restless for change. Sick of my own bullshit. The tall spindly trees stand stoic, unclothed against the wind, threaded into the wide pale blue. Truth tellers and fairy tales which contain the truest bits of all. What could be and what could burn. My bare skin to the naked air, matches back and forth in my own hands. Forests of deep fresh running pain but the kind laced with excitement, set inside the heart like a treasure chest of what may come to pass. Reality up so close you can taste its bitter and its sweet. The trouble is they write you off and you let them decide. You lose your footing because they have collapsed the stairs beneath you and slid you down into a bottomless well never to be seen or heard from again. They move on and you move to the back. They keep getting younger as the life you once lived, that one so fleetingly bright and aglow, passes into shadow where no one else can see. You have your memories, though, and you know all too well what you once were, what you were once capable of. You have glimpses of your former self still left twinkling inside as they dance and swirl like stardust mingling with whispers of sirens, in a future which calls your name as clear and distant as the day you were born.