By Katherine Gotthardt When in the throes of too early morning, sky flamboyant in darkness, stars about its forehead turning it dizzy with its own greatness, its own vast reach, it comes to me in a thin, tepid current, how we are billions just like ourselves, each with a story to live, each with life worth telling. And suddenly I am shaking, lost in enormity, alone in negative space, mammoth perspective and numbers too high to count. Here we everyone be, sleeping or intrusively awakened, lights on in the bedroom or no bedroom at all, city dweller, villager, or solitary traveler, each beneath thumbs of the universe, casual in everything it offers, utter randomness of good day or bad, celebration or abrupt tragedy, besot with meaning or merely one more breath exhaled in invisible air. Together we stand in the pitch, eyes toward the same supposed heaven, dubious in our own existence. Here we are stuck, together, energy captured in questions. Body after corporeal body. Always seeking another sunrise.