Everything that happens bears the sin of prophecy, in both directions. When the festival fires faded in the streets and folk took to their own, either to home or wherever they go, you took the back wooded path toward the glade. Maybe it was the dramatist in you, the lines of puppet theater where one thing happens after another if you're just in the right place at the right time. Most likely you simply get robbed by young men who glance in your direction as you leave but now, in the part of the night where kindness and sorrow have lost all meaning, it is clear you have been left to yourself. The moon showing off somewhere else, the stars stand in full show. Some brighter, more vibrant, but none more beautiful than the one beside it. Any one a vantage point on the past from the present. You find yourself in solitude yet in good company. You stay until crowd goes on their way.