If all the stars sank back into the White Sea, there would be no space for thee. For we are the jubilee of when eternity could see. A memory of what was, and suns could be.

You deny the existence of magic. It's tragic. Aren't you a child born from the ashes of stars? Born from light to decide a life?

There is an unspoken splendor when driving in the dead of night on an empty road. You lose yourself with nothing but your thoughts and the endless glint of stars above.

Stars flicker, flash, and fade like we do. They are born and torn apart by entropy, yet we once called them gods. Foolish is it not? Without knowing, we had called the most permanent concept of a being—stars.