#luftnarp

            and falling, 

                               with the capability to transform into any shape. Then, 

the moment passes, 

and the wax hits the tabletop, 

                                                and solidifies into the shape it will always be. It becomes the past - a solid, single record of what happened, still holding in its wild curves and contours the potential of every shape it could have held. 

         It is impossible - no matter how blessed you are by luck, or the government, 

or some remote, invisible deity gently steering your life with hands made of moonlight and wind 

                                -it is impossible not to feel a little sad looking at that bit of wax, that bit of the past. It is impossible not to think of all the wild forms that wax now will never take. 

     The village, glimpsed from a train window, beautiful and impossible and impossibly beautiful on a mountaintop, and you wonder what it would be if you stepped off the moving train and walked up the trail to its quiet streets and lived there for the rest of your life. 

     The beautiful face of that young man from Luftnarp, with his gaping mouth, and ashy skin, last seen already half-turned away as you boarded the bus, already turning towards a future without you in it - where this thing between you, that seems so possible, now already and forever never was. All variety of lost opportunity spied from the windows of public transportation, really. 

     It can be overwhelming, this splattered, inert wax, recording every turn not taken. “What’s the point?” you ask. “Why bother?” you say. “Oh, Cecil,” you cry, “oh, Cecil.” But then you remember - 

I remember! 

                    - that we are, even now, in another bit of molten wax: we are in a moment that is still falling, still volatile, and we will never be anywhere else. We will always be in that most dangerous, most exciting, most possible time of all: the now, where we can never know what shape the next moment will take. Stay tuned next for - well, let’s just find out together, shall we?

Goodnight, Night Vale, goodnight.”

-Cecil Baldwin

I’ve become aware of something called eyelash yarn (which my knitter friends claim is a totally normal thing). I think that sounds like something straight outta Night Vale.