Night drapes over us a sea of stars whose shiny brine tastes of our wants. Our tongues remember nights like these when we hunger for something or someone just beyond our reach. On nights like these, strong currents carry us into sleep. Our dreams write the story of our flesh. Our flesh writes the story of our dreams. Come morning, the sun bears the tuning fork of a new day. We are washed in a song of brilliant gold. Any of our lingering sorrows and losses have assumed the name of flower.