The last firework scattered across the sky in fading sparkles and we, scattered across the lake - separate and yet together, watched with baited breath as the fireworks died off. That's it, that's it, that's it (and that's alright.)
"They look like stars." I whisper, eyes half shut with the surreality - even more than the consistent surreality that addles our brains - of the situation. This isn't real, but it is and it's one of those legitimate 'existential' moments. I reach out and pick at the grass absently. "They're beautiful."
And they are.