3 A.M. I'm on my first cup of coffee and my hands are already shaking. It's crappy one dollar stuff from the corner 7-11 and to be honest, I am not sure when coffee ever tasted this good. We're past the edge of the city, leaning against the car listening to the wind rustle the cornfield. It's been a dry summer. 

There is a looming darkness at my back, drawing me deeper, away from the ghost lights in the distance and the burning clouds of helium above. Cassiopeia on your left, Cygnus on your right (Orion is always missing). And that is okay. At least, I'm starting to think that is okay. That doubts are really just misplaced hopes and that being lost is just...just...well fuck. I suppose it isn't anything really. I've been counting shooting stars all morning and I have yet to make a wish on any of them. Why would you wish on something that was dying?