Little galaxy.

 

It took her what felt like hours, sandwiched between tourists and Brooklyners alike at artists and fleas, to decide which galaxy was right.

The tiny crystal glimmers came in twos, threes and fours, floating in a smashed pixie dust concoction of blues, blacks and golds. Each one unique, the scene inside a tiny nighttime sky.

This decision was for more than just aesthetics.

One of these was her thoughts and dreams encased, an eye to the future.

Holding many to her neckline, even the length of chain that would hold this vision would change many times, as did where it would be placed. Her pulse, her throat, her chest.

She left, finally, with a treasure that reflected the reckless unknowing of her current state, and the beauty of space and interconnectedness around the bend.

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