The Sun was incapable of making plans. Whenever he tried, a dozen things went wrong. It was his poor sense of timing.
He couldn’t see events through to their ends—how they might play out or conflict. As a result, he preferred to improvise, to choose his course of action as circumstances arose. In this way, he traveled through the crowded, noisy depths of space.
Unknowingly (though he wouldn’t have cared), he blazed an artless path, but left in his wake a baffling trail.
Everywhere he went, the sea of cosmic chatter purred and roared delightful music, raucous patterns. Everywhere he went, his asteroids and planets were gathered around him like a bobbing, spinning brood of ducklings. But occasionally, inside him, he felt a tiny emptiness.
A piece of himself had gone missing, and he couldn’t remember how or where. In the moments when he felt it, he would try to recall whether it had broken off or he had given it away. He’d think back to all the places he had been. He’d scour his memory for the moment it was lost. But it was no use. It could be anywhere.
Whenever these thoughts occurred to him, he would turn and reverse his course. Gradually, the trail he left became a kind of convoluted spiral. Pulled alternately by wanderlust and longing, he’d drawn a labyrinth across the universe.