Close your eyes.

Make a wish.

And the fallen eyelash, uprooted by chance or fate, flew away silently into the vastness of invisibility.

Childhood is that period when you do not question possibilities.

You do not ask where it went. You do not look around to trace its trajectory prior to the last flight and descent.

And yet the precocious nature of inquisitiveness would initiate questions - dreamy, redundant, pointless, useless questions.

You paused to wonder is the broken eyelash a letter to the universe? Is the disintegrated fine sword - the constant companion of your emotional expressions in an existential battle which blinked as you agreed, fluttered as you expressed surprise and was drenched by your sorrow once upon a time - is it now a lone soldier in hope that you send out on a solitary battle into the overwhelming vacuum of nothingness? Or is it the last fragment of a broken wing, camouflaging its purposelessness under the promise of a dream? 

You sigh. You gather yourself. 

And you close your eyes.

To make a wish.