Stellar nurseries, a place once empty and still. But one day, the conditions were just right. Borne out of the darkness, suddenly stars. These perfect little conduits for wishes. These pinpricks we content ourselves to gaze at. We’ll drive miles, to a place where the conditions are just right, to see them in all their glory.

Beings of stardust ourselves, our whole vessel is a hundred year stellar nursery. In the darkness of our little systems, big feelings are born. Little friction sparks, explosive surges of warm blood. When the conditions are just right, magical things ignite in our darkness darkness.

It’s a melancholy truth. We spend our lives admiring that which we descended from. And every night, we’re merely seeing messages from the past. Perhaps it’s even poetic that we make our truest wishes on things that are long since dead. Doomed beings making doomed requests upon snuffed out lights in the sky.