Night has no corners; it bends. A star’s brilliant burst specks the sky, dying. About every second, a shining star explodes somewhere in the universe, scattering elements over my head. Emptiness is hard to come by when even the distance between stars is not empty, filled instead with dust and gases: artifacts of destruction, elements of life. Beneath a silent splendor of silver showers, all I have is all that I know. I am made of stardust.