The night sky is so dark that it appears to be ink, in which all light of cities and sounds of civilization sink into its endless depths, beyond the surface of the atmosphere into the silent vacuum of space.
The angels cast handfuls of stars across the surface of the raven sky and float in clouds of nebula and shine in diamond studded pictures of connect-the-dot mythology.
The treasure of the night sky (above the islands) is the tropical orange moon, rising above the ocean with ethereal grace and Christ-like substance.
And far below the salty breeze and bits of maritime debris decants the bitterness of me.
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