They are the only ones who love me. I am the only one who follows them. Three threadbare maps with creased foreheads and dimples like mine. Three who do not lead me here, but we are here. Three tired journeys taken by travelers. From my glass case, I can spy them, but my kin just stays, blind to these things.
Their beauty is wild. They traverse treacherous terrain and rip mountains apart with ice picks. They fly high and they fly low and splatter paint the world with crooked fingers and dance across tabletops with dirty toes and never stop stretching. This is how they smile.
Let one take her rapture for granted, they’d all stop like thieves at knifepoint, each with their red hands clutching one anothers’. Look, look, look they mutter while I dream. They reach.
When I am too desolate and too spiritless to go on looking, when I am a mere asteroid against galaxies, then it is I look at maps. When there is no dirt left to run in this wood. Three who took me despite my qualms. Three who leap and do not forget to leap. Three whose only reason is to see and see.