It's time to write sad lines, like the one about a blanket of sky punctured by stars dying a millennia ago but whose absence touches us tomorrow. We look for them in daylight, but they are lost, and we stop, no longer the same. I will remember it/her/them/you forever but that's wrong. These structures complicate us, the shape of emptiness, the finitude of loss. Silence being still and certainty tenuous, at twilight, luminous insects light our path.