I flew into Dushanbe on a black cloudless night. Fissures of light hovered in tight clusters throughout the empty dark, the incandescent striae spinning and weaving a gold and blue web. I gazed out and felt the vacancy of infinite space.
This galaxy, Central Asia, Dushanbe, is between worlds. There is no international land travel in and out of Tajikistan, save by hired car or foot. To get to Dushanbe, you pretty much have to fly. And in the air, as I approached the city, the urban constellations hung like chandeliers without rooftop or tether.
Then they flickered. At first, I thought something was wrong with my eyes. I blinked and looked closer. Sure enough, those earthly stars were twinkling, as though so many heavenly wishes had been made. Each glow glinted just before it flashed, faded and disappeared. Soviet electricity, I guess. Or what was left of it. Dozens of lights danced then died beneath the plane.
If I never go to outer space, I can still say this: I flew into Dushanbe on a black, cloudless night.