A/N: I randomly wrote with this while coming down from a huge anxiety attack, hence the vagueness. I wanted to do something from Porschea's POV; I figured that there had to some deep side to her. Please tell me what you think!

The routine has become so familiar that I often do it without thinking: pulling on the cozy sweater that was my mom's; I used to be swimming in the cream colored wool, now it snugly envelopes me in warmth (and itchiness).

I grab the usual arsenal of supplies; the heavy, slightly textured paper and a beat up box of chalk pastels. When I first bought it, the box was shiny and the corners sharp, now the edges are round and the box has lost its once brilliant luster.

Quietly, I open the window and climb through the somewhat narrow gap, making sure that my well loved purple high tops don't lose their grip on the slippery roof. I take tentative steps towards the edge of the dormer and perch astride it.

It isn't the most comfortable, but it provides a good view. Above me, the deep midnight sky is punctured with bright, glittering stars and my hand flies across the page; the stubby, worn down pastel smearing and taking shape, mirroring the sky that stretches out above me.

Regardless of whether or not its sunrise, sunset or the middle of the night, there is something familiar and comforting about the sky. Consistent, yet different every time I see it. The sky is one of the few constants in life, I guess. I was always thought it was the weirdest thing to look at the sky and think that somewhere, miles away from South Park, people are seeing the same sky.

It connects people, often without them realizing it. Sitting up here, looking at the stars, I'm so tiny, a small insignificant part of everything around me, I realize that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if I had a stressful night at work or if I failed another quiz because in the end, wherever I go and whatever I end up doing, I'll always find myself on a roof somewhere, drawing the stars.