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Description
The scattered and the outsiders gathered in the borderlands.
They were searching, or they had established themselves in some form of existence.
Sometimes, small gangs would go out and swing around inland in the villages, doing street art and spraying graffiti on the walls of the cities.
Some then lived on the streets and stayed in the settlements of the good citizens.
There were always a few who drank in the taverns there, slept in the park, smoked herbs and scared people at night.
The city police accepted street life and usually looked the other way when a few apples from the fruit stand went into a stray's pocket.
After all, it were stars who had strayed and wanted to begin their great journey.
They were still searching for their consciousness, weaving their plumage and slowly discovering the view over the horizon.
All beings in and near the border region knew that, above it in the clouds and in the winding levels of consciousness of lonely artists who looked longingly out the window, tears in their eyes and just hoped that their children were fine, even if they no longer remembered every one of them.

Description
The scattered and the outsiders gathered in the borderlands.
They were searching, or they had established themselves in some form of existence.
Sometimes, small gangs would go out and swing around inland in the villages, doing street art and spraying graffiti on the walls of the cities.
Some then lived on the streets and stayed in the settlements of the good citizens.
There were always a few who drank in the taverns there, slept in the park, smoked herbs and scared people at night.
The city police accepted street life and usually looked the other way when a few apples from the fruit stand went into a stray's pocket.
After all, it were stars who had strayed and wanted to begin their great journey.
They were still searching for their consciousness, weaving their plumage and slowly discovering the view over the horizon.
All beings in and near the border region knew that, above it in the clouds and in the winding levels of consciousness of lonely artists who looked longingly out the window, tears in their eyes and just hoped that their children were fine, even if they no longer remembered every one of them.