there is one more star in the box, and so dimly it burns, but it's keeper dares not throw away such a rarity. so, in quiet resign and with heavy heart, the keeper watches it fade out. it will be a gradual fade from dim to dark to dead, unless, (wretched unreachable 'unless') a way can be found to save it from cruel smothering fate. and none has yet come.

i am a keeper of dying stars. collected from dying years and days, being well erased by new and 'wiser' ones. from the mantle i took them and put them in boxes until they burned through and onto my lap, where they stare up at me dolefully asking, 'have you forgotten' and 'can you forget?'.

whereas they used to cute holes into my eyes, they burn little now, for there is little to burn. and where they used to sear through my mortal hands, they grow cold with the bitterness of age and shame. shame of their yet existence--who wants to be a fallen star? who wants to be a keeper of things that couldnt hold themselves up? and still, as a child loves his favourite blanket, i cannot let go of this some strange security, strangely secured to me. and so i watch each die. and i dig little graves for all my past memories.