The sky tore itself open above Iron Mountain, vomiting a billion screaming stars straight into the back of my skull. No sound, just the mad static of infinity. Galaxies hanging like neon wounds in the black. Burning bright and uncaring while we clung to the mountain with cameras and caffeine jitters. You could feel the pulse of the void if you stared long enough, the sense that maybe we weren’t built to witness this kind of raw cosmic lunacy. But hell, that’s the game. You point the lens, hit the shutter, and pray the universe doesn’t blink first. Nights like these remind you: we’re all just animals scratching at eternity’s door, high on starlight and the cold bite of Oregon air.