Red and orange stars twinkle and run. Never still. Perpetual motion, like flowing froths of the galaxy their world exists in.

You hear those loud noises, the beeping and whistling? Did you know, there is noise, still, we cannot hear? All of it—them communicating, saying "I am here."

Patches of barren surface, yet an inner light remains. A little flicker in endless night, a sign of becoming, and better yet, still, of persevering. Flecks of dust, they are, and yet each one catching reflections and shining in their own little way. No two flecks are the same.

Even in their silence, there is a cry, a demand that says both "look at me" and "look away."

But who can look away from a world so full? Here, anti-matter exists not as its own, but as the lack of its counterpart. There? Death exists not as the opposite of Life, but as a gentle friend saying, "Close your eyes. Don't look up to the sky anymore. Look inside."

And inside, indeed, stars live. In ecosystem to population to community to species to organs to tissues to cells. Stars, in black, white, and brown. In green and blue. In colours that they know and they have yet to perceive.

Matter, not just in its natural state, but in creations built by curious minds, breaking down molecules and piecing them back together again.

Stars.

They made their own stars. Those red and orange stars we see? That's just the surface. They, themselves, are made of stars. They are made of stars we cannot see.

And what I would give to see, what I would give to see...