Atlas’s Understudy

Head is bursting, too many stars inside, the drifting filaments of plasma, islands of disembodied intelligence, an expanding surface of solar winds. On the bus I turn to the person next to me. They have a squirrel for a pet. Don’t ask how I know. “The stars are in my head,” I try tell him, but he pretends not to hear me. Can’t say I blame him. I see the sun out there, peaking out from behind a cloud, same as everyone else does. Still, the true coordinates for that celestial orb are firmly located inside my mind. I can only hope I live long enough to pass this legacy along to someone capable, more deserving.