I look at the stars and wonder how long they’ve been waiting for someone to tell them that they don’t have to appear to be beautiful. Someone who will drink a cup of coffee while the splattering rain hit the window cracked by the howling wind and will say, “I can’t see the beautiful stars.” Someone who will believe in their beauty without seeing it all the time. Someone who will ask what’s behind the twinkling surface.
Because stars are sad. They’re there, dazzling while dying.