Our sky

We look at the night sky, and what we most want to find are invisible lines between stars that other people have fixed, and named, the shape of a hunter or a woman, a house or a crown or an earth animal. And we like best the brightest ones, the ones closest to us. This way the sky is ours: in our image, members graded by their nearness to our own star. On this planet we are all the dust of stars, clots of aggregate miraculously aware and centered in our own selves. We are all stars. But stargazers remember: stars are not all us.

Trajectory

She did not think very often of the other paths she could have taken. She read short story collections, called her sister in New Mexico, invested a percentage of her earnings in socially responsible funds. She accepted roles in slasher films. She modeled sweaters for QVC, auditioned for sitcoms, had the occasional walk-on in a crime drama. There were touch-ups, though she was only twenty-three. She knew needles were involved, but mostly immersed herself in deep breathing meditations. This was part of being an actress. Spreads for men's magazines, lying in front of cameras with her top off, pretending coy excitement. She was also, privately, a feminist, and a hiker. Her dog was well-adjusted and did not wear jewelry. She was one of a small number of beautiful people who awaken to find themselves earning a living with their faces and bodies and mouths, one among the galaxy of minor stars.