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Up until a few years ago I slept with my ceiling covered in tiny glow in the dark stars. At night my room would take on a child’s version of the solar system one cannot readily see in a suburb of Manhattan. Planets, comets, space men and, of course, stars sparkled in a vast array of luminous sickly beauty. I remember specifically an occasion at my best friend’s girlfriend’s house. This was before all the problems and the fighting so we were still on good terms. That night, in my junior year of high school, we decorated her entire attic ceiling with thousands of the little stars. After an hour or so of careful placement we shut off the lights and gasped as the tiny room came to life. I doubt they still remain, but the memory lasts undisturbed. For my own part, though, the promise that these symbols held for me gradually diminished and resulted in their tearing down.

Tonight, I discovered that she too slept under a blanket of these same store bought minions. I wonder what kinds of dreams she dreamt while waiting to fall asleep. What kinds of secret hopes and messages were spelled out in her ceiling code? And what was it that eventually caused her to remove her starfield?

Such a tiny similarity yet it brought me a moment of giddy joy. Suddenly I want to buy myself some new stickers! I suppose it’s just nice to think that, although we were hundred of miles apart and not even aware of each other’s existence, we shared this experience. Together we slept beneath a phosphorescent universe of possibilities.

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