If you gaze into starlight for long enough, the deck wood suddenly splinters below you. You follow your own pupil between Osiris and the night's Cassiopeia, gingerly gathered in skirt-folds of black more-fallen stars behind her never smile. Here the splinters sting your hands, oak sliding between the yellow tenderness of your palms, beneath the swirling calluses that shiver with shine. Black wood. Black because it's dark. Black because the rods can only catch so much, you suppose. Can only gather in cylindrical graphs, light, light, light, red dots across the blank. Don't touch your stinging palms to your stinging eyes—don't make alloy of this sliver. Stand shakily, knee by knee, broken boards below you. Your blood pounds lay down lay down through your back, to the small curve below mid-brain, right on the joint of round head to soft neck to carbonated bone.
A quick-write "meaning to writing" exercise from fiction class.
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