When I was thirteen, I wanted to shake the world—make the stars fall into it. I don’t think anybody saw beauty like I did: light bulb reflections in my mother’s coffee mug, sunlit dust motes suspended in the kitchen, how if you squint your eyes at a streetlamp, the light bursts in a hazy blur, vibrating between your eyelashes in the cold night— you can almost hear the hum. I remember sitting on my bedroom floor, knowing I was going to harness that light— replace the world’s pupils with filaments, encase the Earth in a glass bulb and let everything inside glow. If I could write something so unbelievably beautiful, maybe everyone else would see it as well. Now I am stunned, in the afterglow, lingering in the gloaming, staring after the last bit of light, wondering where all that beauty went.