The Most Beautiful Thing in My Mind.

He Could Talk to The Moon.

11.45 pm
He's a star, stolen from the sky where he belongs. Brought to the Earth and turned into an artifact. He's glistening to the eye, and cold as space, frigid to the touch. Inside, a cascade of molten emotions and seething thoughts confine themselves within. A twisting and churning mess pressing against it's prison, rolling and sparkling with terrible fury. A miniature star, contained with a black necklace, strung against his neck is the only cry. I want to understand these thoughts, his thoughts. Maybe one day I will.