Two twin girls in matching flared skirts of tattered blue chiffon walk hand-in-hand through a very old cemetery. The cemetery, teething with tombstones of starlit marble, glitters under the cincture of the celestial sphere. The night is dark. The sky is wide. The cemetery is sooty from cosmic dust. Beyond the girls, a tombstone juts from a fresh grave. Carved by hand in native granite, the tombstone reads, in English, “No Name/Born – Died.” The twins are the only two people in the cemetery.


Someone enters the cemetery. It is The Moment. To The Moment girls are interchangeable ghosts of a simple plan. To the girls, The Moment is a character that cannot be aroused. The tombstone still reads, “No Name/Born – Died,” but now, one twin says to the other twin, “A falling star. Perfectly simple.”


“What did you say?”


“I said it’s perfectly simple. A falling star.”


“We’ll wait and see.”


Between the identical twins there is a fall, a fell, a fallacy. To each, the other seems consecrated comet, replete with a heliotrope halo, two diamond strengths and one natural orbit. Hence, when The Moment declares, “Make a wish,” the two twins look at one another and declare the other lighter.


You are the Lighter Than Air.


You are the Lighter Than Sound.


You are the Sound of All Suns.


The Songs of All Sins.


You are my Silver Lined Desiderata.