stars

....my sacred landscape is the foothills of the stars - I go there often to sleep ...

I felt as if the Milky Way, hovering above our heads like a celestial pitcher, had suddenly overturned, pouring suns and planets down my throat. Stars seemed to be shooting out of my finger and toes, the ends of my hair.

Living as an entity under a filled with stars sky and seeking for intuition, a voice whispers from your heart, for soul is unchained from whatever pulls it down, while what she is craving for is but only Ascension towards Divine _.

Rigel, Betelgeuse, and Orion. There was no finer church, no finer choir, than the stars speaking in silence to the many consumptives silently condemned, a legion upon the dark rooftops. The wind came down from the north like a runner in lacrosse, violent and hard, to batter every living thing. They were there, each one alone in conversation with the stars, mining ephemeral love from cold and distant light.

My feeling is that an observer needs to see four hundred and fifty stars to get that feeling of infinitude, and be swept away_and I didn__ make that number up arbitrarily, that__ the number of stars that are available once you get dimmer than third magnitude. So in the city, you see a dozen stars, a handful, and it__ attractive to no one. And if there__ a hundred stars in the sky it still doesn__ do it. There__ a certain tipping point where people will look and there will be that planetarium view. And now you__e touching that ancient core, whether it__ collective memories or genetic memories, or something else form way back before we were even human_astronomer Bob Berman quoted in The End of Night

The velvet tapestry of the night curved from horizon to horizon, flecked with thousands of tiny stars. There seemed all the more of them, for as well as filling the sky, they shimmered in an elegant ballet on the waves, the sea itself giving them life.

for the first time in an age, he saw the beauty of the stars, rather than the darkness between them.

There is no way in which a man can earn a star or deserve a sunset.

A dreamer is a gifted man ,who, plucks out his dreams of sparkling stars.

I had travelled from Spain into Morocco and from there south to the Atlas Mountains, at the edge of the Sahara Desert_one night, in a youth hostel that was more like a stable, I woke and walked out into a snowstorm. But it wasn__ the snow I was used to in Minnesota, or anywhere else I had been. Standing bare chest to cool night, wearing flip-flops and shorts, I let a storm of stars swirl around me. I remember no light pollution, heck, I remember no lights. But I remember the light around me-the sense of being lit by starlight- and that I could see the ground to which the stars seemed to be floating down. I saw the sky that night in three dimensions- the sky had depth, some stars seemingly close and some much farther away, the Milky Way so well defined it had what astronomers call __tructure_, that sense of its twisting depths. I remember stars from one horizon to another, making a night sky so plush it still seems like a dream.It was a time in my life when I was every day experiencing something new. I felt open to everything, as though I was made of clay, and the world was imprinting on me its breathtaking beauty (and terrible reality.) Standing nearly naked under that Moroccan sky, skin against the air, the dark, the stars, the night pressed its impression, and my lifelong connection was sealed.

I made a wish on a sliver of moonlightA sly grin and a bowl full of stars

An airplane crossed the sky, and she imagined its interior-people packed in rows like eggs in a carton, the chemical smell of the toilets, pretzels in foil pouches, cans hiss-popping open, black oval of night sky embedded in the rattling walls. How strange that something so drab, so confined, so stifling with sour exhalations and the fumes of indifferent machinery might be mistaken for a star.

And now, I needed the stars. Not the explosive ones that hurled out tongues of gas and, along with gravity, hammered out the planets. I needed the comforting ones that twinkled like a childhood song, that spun about my head, my head alone as I watched them. I was the __ne who knows_ after all. I was_consciousness.

Adolescence impelled her eyes to stay at an even keel, to deal with the ground before flickering to the heavens. Night became not dotted with fairy clouds of celestial brilliance, but simply the time when the sun was out of sight.

The Milky Way swooped diagonally across the heavens, reminding me of my utter insignificance, and at the same time my complete interconnection with everything. I was just a tiny speck of consciousness, and yet I was consciousness itself.

Why is it people will complain, when they have an open door, where they can walk out to and gaze the stars; rather than having a closed door to lock them in?

Small said, "But what about when we are dead and gone, will you love me then, does love go on?"_Large (replied) "Look at the stars, how they shine and glow, some of the stars died a long time ago. Still they shine in the evening skies, for you see_love like starlight never dies_

The stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed from their husks.