The Stars and and and and and and and and and and and and
Aries: The floor here is all starlight and space, black marble stained with mercury and silver. There is a foul smell on the wind, acrid and sharp. There is a note in your hand, an address scribbled in a hasty hand. Trembling now. You must sleep.
Taurus: A place you remember. A grocery store, empty and dark. Foosteps echo off linoleum. The tiger has been following you for what feels like hours, unblinking and steady, never growing too close. You should not be here. You must sleep.
Gemini: Here where the earth has forgotten you. The river valley where your life was written like musical score upon the world. Spots in the grass where you rested after playing in the river. Worn stones that bore your name. You must sleep.
Cancer: Night. A street you don’t remember. A group of friends pass you laughing. A tattooed man in finery, skin deep as the night, asks where you have been. He holds something on a leash, but your eyes cannot focus on it. You must sleep.
Leo: A storm drain. The signs say it drains to the ocean but you are so far from the ocean there is no way it can drain to the ocean. Hands along damp walls feel subtle motion like the static in the air before the storm. You must sleep.
Virgo: A you that could have been. There is something beside you, but you do not want to turn your head. You watch the almost-you move through your almost-home. A longing, a revulsion. You must sleep.
Libra: Distinction fades like watercolor running over inked lines. Yesterday becomes the day before. A lover becomes the next. The sensation of wind on the face itself becomes flesh on flesh on wind on wind. You must sleep.
Scorpio: And one day you will awake hearing the subtle language of the world. The whirring chains of bicycles will whisper their routes, the crows will tell of the places they have seen, weeds from the concrete will ask not to be trod upon. As soon as it starts, it will vanish. You must sleep.
Ophiuchus: The nerves of home. The empty glade where home would be, bereft of everything but the wires tipped in light, suspended in the air. Foundation, roof, and drywall, all vanished without a trace. You must sleep.
Sagittarius: A woman with a parasol moves through the carnival throng, her lips red as the evening sky hold a centipede in place. The shade covers her eyes. You must sleep.
Capricorn: The body aches, the eyes dry. You have been here before, sitting in this place, staring at these words. When you close your eyes and see this table, this chair, does it stir contentment? Is the ache familiar? You must sleep.
Aquarius: A theater. A dialogue between characters in masks who every few sentences is replaced, mask traded to a new actor who takes their place in the river of words with no beginning and no end. You must sleep.
Pisces: The sound of a slow rolling river. A city crests the horizon, parting from the weeds like the prow of a great and distant ship. This is the furthest you have ever come. You must sleep.
