1560 c/o Marvin K. Mooney

The First Pirate Observes the Night Sky

A man could spend ‘is entire life watchin' Perseus move across th' night sky, runnin' away from th' Great Square. An' a lass could devote th' lass' ever' night t' watchin' Cygnus fall headfirst towards 't. These constellations will nay change. Unlike th' observers who age an' eventually sink t' Davy Jones' locker, Perseus will forere run from th' Great Square an' Cygnus be forere doomed t' careen towards 't. They be immortal. Picture perfect an' beautiful. They play the'r part wi' flawless conviction. Great grandparents o' great grandparents be havin' this in common wi' all the'r descendants: th' glowin' everlastin' paintin' o' th' night sky. 'Tis rotten then t' reckon th' sky be nay perfect. In fact, 'tis heartbreakin'. Reckon th' sheer loneliness Perseus must endure fer all o' eternity, fleein' th' Great Square. Th' sheer loneliness Cygnus must endure in th' lass' perpetual descent towards 't. They be both obviously lookin' fer somethin'. Love? Perhaps. But most likely they be lookin' simply fer companionship. Someone t' share the'r existence wi'. Cygnus be prayin' t' find 't at th' Great Square an' Perseus be convinced he can find 't elsewhere. They be so close in th' sky, only a wee fathoms from meetin', how sad 'tis t' be seein' them frozen thar so close t' findin' each other ever' single night. They be nay lost. They will simply neremeet. They will nereknow that th' other existed. Destiny will be havin' nothin' o' 't. Th' sky be a cruel vortex. 't has a dull luminosity like 't’s jus' barely hangin' on. Them silvery stars shine on accoun' o' they be havin' t' nay on accoun' o' they want t'. Th' sky has nay hope. Th' constellations be havin' nay dreams, but e'en if they did what use would they be? They be havin' nay way o' congregatin' amongst they's self t' discuss the'r wishes let alone act upon them. They be jus' as helpless as we be. But maybe they be better off. They do nay be havin' t' deal wi' flora or fauna. They don’t worry about other stars. They don’t be havin' scurvy or famine. They exist exactly as we exist, meaningless, but wi' th' distinct advantage o' nay bein' burdened wi' th' horrible cripplin' dire need t' create meanin' fer they's self. They don’t struggle fer a bucketfull o' voyages t' understand th' importance o' the'r bein', they don’t pine away at a job an' waste the'r voyages, they jus' glow unsuspectin' until one tide they burst an' slowly fade t' a stellar cinder, scatterin' a tattered streamer o' star dust across th' graveyard o' space.