The sky is clearing tonight, shroud of clouds dissipated and the dark shining down upon earth prickled with sparks. Stars burn bright with cold, commanding the upward gaze. Our poets have said, that the stars dance, that they twinkle with humor, that at the day of their creation the morning stars sang together.
When I lay me down tonight, I will enter the dark of sleep seeking solace. The thoughts that swirl their cloak of drowse around me will hold something of gravity, and many cares to be laid aside, the wonder of cell adhesion in contrast to the day's accumulated aches and strains. I will seek silence then, and count it a respite.
I have tried to listen some nights, to what their voices send. They do indeed sing, of things wondrous beyond wonder, and hauntingly blurred in transmission across the lightyears: how in heaven there is song, not silence; there is endless joy without fatigue; pleasure does not disappoint. This is the sense I receive, from the words heard at some level just below auditory...perhaps I shall hear it again, and clear, in sleep, seeking a dream that can translate, the things Orion said to me.
