My ceiling used to have glow and the dark stars on it. The sun always seemed hesitant when it set, like it was waving goodbye to an absent world, but I was too young to realize that it was just showing off its beauty. And when it was dark, I stared at those stars and wondered if I could be part of that world, and maybe if I fell asleep quick enough I could go on a journey to the moon. Nothing sparkles anymore, and when the sun goes down, it means times up. Life is a series of moments that are insignificant, small happenings, and yet, it always seems like the small things end up making the biggest difference. The other day I saw a bind man walking on the sidewalk in the city, the only thing guiding him, a white stick and the blaring of car horns. I looked up at the buildings above me, and I knew that even the dullest of things shine, when compared to total darkness. What does an artist do? Do we notice things that no one else can, or is it simply that we give meaning to things that are put on earth to defeat beauty? I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe I’ll be an accountant.