I wheeled with the infinite celestial precision of the starts, the universe collapsed downwards onto my being, a stack of matryoshka dolls, each entombing the last. I held the flowery patterns of light and shadow in my hand and felt I was acting out my own death as some sort of morbid rehearsal. In this sempiternal night, light threw a certain kind of harshness, separating each object from the next by blade of the sword. My dreams, too, were subjected to this same practice, and at last, I could see each clearly for what it was. In the morning, I knew I would not find such a clarity. My eyelashes caught rainbows on their ends and blurred them into camera aperture circularity; the field of the kaleidoscope danced with every angle and movement of my head. I feel eternal tonight, the stuff of stars scientists tell us we are. Who knew? Who knew?