You wake one unassuming Sunday morning to find the stove still burning from the night before . Blue flames lick the edges of nothing in particular and you remember your dream from the night before, warm; you dreamt that you were asleep inside the core of a living star. You saw nothing of the universe and it saw nothing of you. Galaxies crumbled and reformed like pieces of iron under a pulsing magnet as you slept; you never knew that a place called Earth existed and your life was no better or worse for it. In your dream you slept and slept so long that your beloved star grew weary of itself and shrunk, and all of the universe began rushing towards you. You wake up hungry. You eat cereal from the box with your hands and wash it down with almost-spoiled milk, and then you find the leftover noodles you cooked last Friday at the back of the fridge and eat those too. Hungry. You microwave some frozen vegetables. Hungry. Peanut butter by the spoonful because you have no bread. Hungry. You realize that the stove is still on, that you could have easily burned to death, that last night you stared out the window at midnight thinking I am beautiful, I am the biggest and the brightest of them all because everyone tells me so, because I work for it every single day. You are still hungry.