Small centers of gravity dotted into our shared universe, the sandbox a black hole. Hours zooming by, moms in tight orbits, monkey bars, and He-Man. And then, light-years later, roaming them at night as teenagers. Rusty swing sets, flimsy vodka pop bottles, first cigarettes and fast kisses. It felt like we were the Masters of the Universe. And we tried not to cough. Shooting through outer space a million miles an hour, while longing for sandcastles.