I navigate the dark house by moving from the green star of the smoke detector to the blue star of the electric toothbrush. I am no different than Magellan or Marco Polo, I am guided by what burns. Some nights I step onto the back porch. The prow of it charges the blackness, while the stars above me sharpen and blur. Inside, I harbor the ache of what is no longer possible.
Socrates taught Plato and Plato taught Aristotle and Aristotle taught Alexander the Great, who founded a city that would house the most voluminous library of the ancient world — until it was burned, until forgetting came back into vogue. The great minds come down through the years like monkeys descending from high branches. Always a leopard is waiting to greet them — in the tall grass, among the magnetic berries, in the place they should have checked.