The murals are butterflies of time, pinned to the wall in a semblance of life. When Carlo died they became silent for a time, watchful, but in the month since they have gone back to each other, back to love and joy and the sunshine coming down on them in thick, buttery strokes. They're paintings; they don't have space for prolonged sorrow.

Tiny nanodiamonds inside meteorites appear to be true "star bits," born in the edges of dying stars long, long before our solar system ever formed.

If we had more moons, / months would fracture into innumerable shards