When the points of a shooting star are drawn to the magnet of the imagination, heard by the ears of the soul, ripened with radiant light, ambient moisture, the shape of nothing-become-something eludes definition. The mystery of the universe is the mystery of its smallest organ, member, entity. Every moment is a birth that was conceived, preconceived, and reflected in time which has no shape but which defies shape. The shape of a star is an ornament in the sky as designed by the seer, the poet, the actor, the engineer, the artist, and whomever it is who last breathed a sigh. Always adventuring outward, the star is a migration toward the self.
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