On a clear moonless night your see the universe winking a few of its zillion stars. Each star runs outward, stretching the elastic fabric of space. In this way even the constellations are unraveled. But stars also cluster, tiny pinwheels of light, on the pane of a window. Still closer, they spark the fingertips into beckoning fires. At last they swarm inward, past the skin of the eyes, and on their journey shine briefly over a forest of nerves.
