Post your pieces here. In fact let's create a textual constellation in doing so!
The task was to write about a constellation that would be somehow connected to whatever setting you manage to extract from your song line. For our purposes anything that consists of a certain set of elements in a specific relational arrangement counts as a constellation.
You can develop this in any way you like!
Oh, and it would be cool if you could include a little reference to the song from which you departed.

Scorched walls enclosed him. Darkened with the traces of an incinerating event raging through. For no discernible movement, and with his eyes directed elsewhere entirely, these walls yet enclosed his otherworldly feel of his body. This corporeal sense was slowly and perpetually falling away into the distance of an inner wave of imagistic thought washing down the river of temporal experience; from the inner sides of his skull, down the neck, and off along the spine. This was far from a brown study. Though brown indeed was the unevenly spread imprint dominating the four walls. This room drenched in darkness, which for all its destitute state of burned-out emptiness might well have been someone’s study that short eternity ago. If these walls had ears they were deaf by now, and they certainly were unresponsive to him.
The ceiling was gone. And beyond, the moon dominated a sky whose darkness and blackened absence of colour was the result of the intense command by that pale, indirectly illuminating orb. Beware of full moon nights. They are when things happen. A friendly warning voice in the past spoke to him from the off. They are the time when people are not themselves. You might even encounter uncanny behaviour, retrospectively assembled, in the seemingly illogic fidgeting of your own body’s restless state. That’s what the full moon does. Or so he had found on previous occasions. The storm was sometime gone now. Contrasting heavily with the contemplative shock that had filled the void it left. He was on his own. Administered and left. Spellbound to some fixed indiscernible point in the moon’s blurred interior. He was looking for perspective. A different grip from the desperately panic, yet unconscious, clutch of his hands which would not slacken. He was looking for something to relate to.
From within the opened, quick fire storm weathered cube, his eyes were trying to spotlight the only source of radiating brightness. Which was looking back down on him with a distanced insistence of truth, and the whole hopelessly desperate situation. But what his celestial opposite would see was not up to him. Yet the only seemingly bidirectional, constant stare was self-perpetuating with an intensity he found enchanting. He was enjoying, from within, tinted in the effect, a moment of awareness of his heavily sedated state. Forced relaxation. In this cubic field of scorched options.
It was a twofold enclosed view. Disregarding the wider scene. And giving sense from a self-projected intensity afar. In this light it felt close to the one time he had been in love. She was a star to him. That denied short spell. When the trickle from his stomach over the arm would soon have come to a halt. And that dark puddle beneath would long have thickened. Then, he thought, it could only be a good thing the moon should have witnessed. But just to be sure he wrote down some words as well:
I was lying in a burned out basement
with the full moon in my eyes
I was hoping for replacement
when the sun burst through the sky
there was a band playing in my hair
And I felt like getting high

The night was not yet halfway through. After he put the pen down, a consoling sound arose, and never left him.

(Lines from: Neil Young, After the Gold Rush on the album of the same title)


He walks to the kitchen table and hands her the plate. The slices of orange on one side of the plate, the chopped up banana and the grapes on the other. The girl looks at it, satisfied, and starts munching. It is very important how the food is laid out on the plate, and the brother knows this. He always understands her weird tendencies. She thinks this is quite extraordinary, he is after all her halfbrother. Siblings are supposed to understand each other without words, but what about half-siblings? They sit at the kitchen table together, he watches her tenderly. 'How's dad doing?' she asks him in between bites.
The mood shifts. 'Fine, I take it', the brother grumbles. He gets up and drops the empty plates in the sink. The sister always tries to talk about their father in a casual way, but it never seems to work. Her brother obviously has a very different relationship to their father. The sister always has the feeling she will never be able to grasp what actually happened in her brother's childhood, before she was born. Of course, his mother died, and although he never talks about this, the sister knows he blames their father for this. She also knows that her brother does not take to her mother, the second wife of their father, since she must have taken up the role of stepmother. But, the sister thinks, her mother is a very sweet lady, and it's really not her fault that she was forced into that position. Whenever the sister tries to get the whole family, that is, her father, her mother and her brother, together, one of them always seems to find an excuse to cancel the meeting. Her father's health is usually the alibi, and, to be fair, it might well be true that he sometimes gets attacks of extreme tiredness. He is, after all, 79 years old.
They are still in the kitchen, the sister and the brother, and as usual, the conversation has fallen dead. The sister stares at the brother, the brother stares at the wall. 'I have to go', he mumbles after a while, gives her a pat on the head and starts to leave. He knows that her mother wlill be home soon, and he obviously wants to avoid the awkward stumbles of 'Hello'. Before he walks out of the door he turns around and looks at the sister. The table, the two chairs, the light from the window. He says: 'Are you still seeing that guy?'
The sister sighs. 'Yes.'
Silence. He just looks at her.
'I know you don't like him,' she says, 'but just get over that. He's my boyfriend.'
'This is really annoying,' she continues, 'I don't have an opinon about who you're seeing, right? So why should you care who I'm seeing?'
The brother can not speak, he is too angry. The sister goes on.
'You are not my dad, you know.'

I sit with my father on a terrace, drinking cocktails. A girl walks past. She is quite pretty, my age. My father gets a weird shiny look in his eyes. 'What?' I ask.
'Don't look,' he says, 'But do you see that girl there? Right, don't look. Wait until she's gone.'
I patiently wait and am wondering what kind of gossip my father's got ready for me this time.
'Right,' he continues, his eyes still ashine like a small kid, 'I know her father, he's an old friend of mine. Well, you think our family's weird? Then listen to this. But you can not tell ANYONE I've told you this.'
I look at him, amused at his childlike behaviour and excitement.
'Alright,' I say, 'Come on then.'
'Ok. Her father… and you can not tell ANYONE I've told you this.'
'Ya ya, get on with it.'
'Ok. Her father is 79. And she is about your age now, so her father was about 60 when she was born. But, when she was with her mother, who was his new wife by then, and about 25 years younger than him, he relised that he could not have any children anymore. He was too old. But his new wife really really wanted a child. So..,' and here my father lowers his voice to a conspiratory whisper, 'he asked his SON, from an earlier marriage…'
He looks at me with a meaningful grin on his face. I cannot believe what he is telling me, so I urge him on to explain in more detail.
'He asked his son to sleep with his wife. Just once. Just so that she could have a child.'
My father seems to find this story extremely comforting, and he happily sips away on his Sex on the Beach.
I turn around, deeply disturbed, and try to find the girl in the crowd. I want to run after her, shake her shoulders, and tell her the strange truth. But of course I don't. How can I.
How can I explain to a virtual stranger that her father is in fact her grandfather, and that her brother is in fact her father?

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