The knowing of another person.
The ones you’ve known for twenty years and still come back to, a place in your own inner landscape: here, this is where I learned X, there is where I first knew Y.
The peripheral orbits with which you intersect, swinging closer for a moment or a season and feeling your own refection off their celestial surface: a new sense of yourself, a new point from which to triangulate and journey on.
And the new ones, the surprises, the ones that came out of the blue but now, looking back across time and space, whose ripples are unmistakable: always coming to break in soft white waves on your shore.
Now you walk along your outer edges, collecting driftwood from some far-off and familiar land, and light a fire that can be seen from space.