There was a boy, laying on his hill of soft grass. Surrounded by his trees illuminated by the moonlight. The trees, the hill nor the soft grass were his. But he considered it his, at least during the night. Because he never saw anyone else when he walked across the leaves that made no sound. He heard nothing other than the owls and the little frogs, mixing with the sound of his little creek. There was no smell other than the crisp, fresh air. As the boy lay across his favorite spot on his hill, he looked up at the stars. His near pitch black eyes that had adjusted to the dark of his forest now shone as bright as the stars he gazed at. And the stars gazed back, a familiar face to him. His eyes jumped back and forth, connecting dots, making new things and people, he wouldn’t remember them later. But that was a different time to worry about. The boy’s eyes began to droop, his breathing slowed. As he looked up at the stars, they looked back, putting on a sad face, but the boy and the stars both knew they would see eachother the next night. So they both put on a smile, and slept.