Astronomers tell us that we are literally "made of stardust". That atoms heavier than hydrogen and helium, for instance, can only be made after a star has burned 'em and churned 'em through its life to explode as a supernova, which sends out streams of the heavier stuff, "stardust", across vast distances, that then collects in solar system clumps to make another sun and its planets. Only then can these more complex atoms lay their devious plans to make someone like you, or someone like me.

  I knew such a someone, like you. A someone just like me. This was, in reflection, a relatively short time period astronomically.
  I knew him certainly less than fifty-seven years, but more than twenty (you all know I do recall such important things with high accuracy like that).

  Some stars are large, big-hearted, burning fuel rapidly. Such stars go nova at a rather early age. We called him "Johnny Boy" for his ever-youthful exuberance, and he was only a year or so ahead of me, but I am quite young for ancient souls such as we. He burned with a passion that is rarely seen by most human individuals. I thought my mind was fast, but he could barely pause for breath before rocketing into the next conversation topic. You soon realized that you only had to relax and ride along -- like you were at an amusement park or some such high-energy entertaining venue. He, apparently, was explicitly created to do exactly that thing. A thing that delivers wonder directly into your mind while you just sit back with his beamer-headphones on your skull and enter your favorite personal Zen trance-like state. I'm not sure he even understood that was the way it was. He did have subtle powers beyond his ken.

  But I for one, certainly enjoyed every ride.

  An extraordinary amateur astronomer, we had many a good long night out under the Milky Way. Many breaking dawns had we wondered weary which way would weave our destiny.

  Johnathan Morris. It was cremation with a secluded service, "Stardust", and now I know of his destiny...

  There appeared the Great Sun Jester, who danced between the stars.
  They'd stripped him of his yester-hood, signs of Venus and Mars.
  Weeping starlight claimed him when his nova left him torn.
  But the madness they had driven out, this new dust warm, unborn.
  Now we're dying in our dreams, and the hard gods track us down.
  They've killed the wild-eyed Jester they've -- killed my Fire Clown.

  May your own stardust roam as far as his long vision did. He had "The Right Stuff" to create that next solar system.
  No such sunny spots may alight my own stars, I'll visit soon enough Johnny Boy...
                              ...go burn a new sun... and leave the light on for me.


- Masters, April 17 2013