It’s Sunday night – or maybe Monday morning – and the moon is far fuller than I. She shines so bright, photons scattered helplessly by clouds and fog. I miss the stars. I feel it’s been years since I’ve seen the constellations I know by heart. Even here, the top of the highest building in the metro, the air and thus the clouds have not yet thinned. I stand, step back, and then leap. Void-wings snap open, beat rhythmically in time with the winds. I climb nonlinearly higher, swooping with the currents as the air itself fades away. The stars ever-so-slowly start to twinkle through the chiffon clouds. The constellations smile my way, offering a dance of warm “hello.” It’s Sunday night – or maybe Monday morning – and I think I might be okay.