The hope born on a midnight eve to to covet the stars in my grasp to light my path in voids of darkness postulating destiny to guide me amongst the void of unknown hope. To bear such faith only stars know, the beauty the bear is the piercing power to unfold the chasms of empty space and before our eyes behold. This I long to know to envelop my procrastinating soul and dream once again on clouds to hold the dancing lingering lights of the burning sons of God that claim life from far from the eternal death in their cruel spheres. Only but a speckled pin point on our costly visage in short linage never returned and yet precious in the finite beings that populate our revolving world. This is the conundrum of the enigma of the human species. Individuals irreplaceable in the masses of infinite, life as of the grass to bury and burn. It is oxymoron of creation. The answer merely a question in the aesthetics of divine humor.