I love shooting stars. They're so magical. Last night while Ryan and I were at a park lying down and gazing at the 7 stars that were visible to us in the light polluted sky, we saw a huge shooting star. Like, it was big. It took away what Ryan called his "shooting star virginity".

That one star got me reminiscing about my New York camping trip, about that Thursday night when Michael, Carmen, Patrick and I went on a night hike to the waterfall and ended up in the middle of the road, lying down on the still-warm-from-the-sun cement, gazing up at the dark, star-filled sky while listening to the peaceful sounds of the lake and the constant mooing of the cow-toads. Fire flies drifting in and out of our vision, a light breeze caressing our faces, and quietly chatting with one another. It was perfect. Then to add to the perfection, we saw at least 6 shooting stars. I think I wished for the same thing on every single star: to never let that moment end.

Buuuutttt, like all good things, this one came to an end. Thank goodness I go camping, because I've experienced so so so many wonderful things at camp. Things that are impossible in the city. I need to get out more.