And then the day would come: a Tuesday, an early afternoon in the spring, winter, summer or fall—it didn’t matter which season it was; any would do. We were upstairs in an apartment with plain-brown carpet, a card table, a couch and a twenty-seven inch TV like the tube we hawked in New Mexico. We all sat in the stardust-filled apartment of Jenny and Camelback—the doomed couple—doomed to end their relationship, and with the notorious Ska T-boy, Tommy, and occasionally Ms. Fin; and we stared, starry-eyed ourselves and filled with the music of the magical moment, like a Connick moment, like him singing “And now the purple dusk of twilight-time steals across the meadow of my heart; high up in the sky the little stars climb…” The ‘little stars’ were all over the screen and we pretended we saw real stars and into the infinite blue universe—at those stars, planets, rising suns and moons, spinning galaxies—black holes at the center of them spitting out light and sucking in light, and our minds taking us there—into where Luke stands in his fiery jumpsuit singing into the unknown with stars in his eyes; the mystical that’s so far away, so close, in all of our eyes, in the mad television moments that were just a few feet away on the screen. And there I was, with the help of Siddhartha while my other friends and Tommy learned that it’s easier to love the imperfect; that the experience of being alive is imperfection and suffering, and like Campbell said: “We all need to tell our story and to understand our story,” and, that myth helps us to understand our “experience of being alive.”