As it appears in E11, a publication by The Center for Architectural Discourse.
Like a stretch of dark, infinite skin, the sky above is smooth and unblemished. You speed underneath that uniform black blue, through a bright blur of streetlights, a ribbon winding up and around, through cities of white and orange flecks; tapestries of attainable, terrestrial constellations.
On this intertwining ribbon, you drive, taking its loops a little too fast, eyes forward and never up, because the universe is far and invisible, and the only galaxies that matter are here, on the ground, with you.
You drive, but sometimes the rush of the wind against the metal of the car is so loud. Sometimes, when the lampposts are passing by too fast to count, when you can’t connect the stars anymore and the constellations have stopped making sense– sometimes you slow down.
Sometimes, you stop.
Moments of stillness are rare in this constantly gushing stream of movement, but they exist. Sometimes they are mountainous; big bulking blocks of rocks, demanding a quiet as heavy as they.
Sometimes they are fleeting, those moments. A quiet song on the radio, a soft drizzle on your windshield. A phone-call, a cigarette.
Sometimes they are transcendent.
They pull you up, and you realise you’ve cramped your neck looking forward for so long. Look up! Look away from your earthy stars, look at the sky; a million suns like summer freckles, a thousand galaxies, pink and blue, like bruised cheekbones.
They take you outside. They take you outside of yourself, outside of themselves. You and they are sharp corners pointing up, cutting edges turning away. You are only waiting, here at those monuments in those monumental moments. Everything is only waiting. Everything is just here until take off.