When you are lying on a terrace along the Italian coastline and the sky above you is littered with stars like buckshot through a backlit blackboard, the world can seem surprisingly small.
Perhaps it is because you are with your friends, three warm bodies arranged around you like pieces of a Picasso face. They point vaguely at this constellation or that satellite, words turning from past remembrances to future promises. A warm sea breeze carries the reminder of a nearby open beer and the quiet murmuring of hidden birds. A scraggly old tree grows on the edge of the terrace, blocking out stars like a serpent’s nest of black holes. A Swedish girl and her mysterious, silent companion pass through, but it is only when the Milky Way becomes visible, the night sky flush with a pale white glow, that your companions grow excited. There is much to discuss in moments like these; or there is nothing. It is eminently acceptable either way.