The stars are falling

After moving all of my worldly possessions out of my flat, unloading them from the cars, after the pizza is ordered and the beer is bought, I give a toast. "To my friends, I wish to offer my gratitude for without your help," I say, "I would never have been able to move back into my father's house."

My childhood bedroom has been converted into a storage room, meaning that everything that people didn't want anymore, rather than throw it out, it's all been put into that room. Dehumidifiers that don't work. Books that will never be read ever again. A set of flannel sheets that shed so much you wake up in the middle of the night unable to breathe. And boxes. And boxes. And boxes.

Cleaning all of it out of the room, clearing enough space to put my bed down, I notice that the glow in the dark stars along the ceiling of my old room, I notice that they're peeling. Whatever glue that held them up there must have dried up, because the stars are falling.