The night cracked open above us, a black ocean sprayed with diamond shrapnel. Every star a witness, every constellation a jury foreman scribbling notes about mankind’s lunacy. Down on the horizon, the mountains cut their jagged oath against the sky, and the clouds glowed like the rim of a furnace, yellow fire. Or maybe just the last gasp of some dying sun filtered through the smoke of our sins. Hard to tell. Out here the lines between beauty and menace blur until you’re left with only the raw pulse of the thing.

This is no postcard scene. This is the frontier, the edge of the map where sane men turn back. You point your lens at the stars not because you’re trying to capture them, but because you’re daring them to blink first. And the mountains sit in silence, smug and ancient, while you fumble with shutter speed and ISO like a half-drunk gambler trying to rig the table.

But when it works, when the shutter snaps and the universe concedes a fraction of itself. You feel that electric jolt that keeps lunatics like us crawling back into the wilderness. Because in this current storm of politics, madness, and digital decay, the stars are the last honest thing left. They don’t lie. They don’t bend. They just burn.

And maybe that’s the lesson, find your mountain, frame your chaos, and let the sky remind you that we’re all just sparks, waiting to catch.