Stars, heavily sunk in twilight, quaver. I imagine them as songs of silence, serenading deep time. Though I’m wide awake and standing in a parking lot, I listen with my dreaming self, who can’t speak. He smiles into the dying day. And I want to know what he’s thinking. Of course, he isn’t. He’s feeling mysteries feeling their way into him. It’s up to me to name them. Beauty. Awe. The sky poised for darkness, just as we. Or is that a nihilist myth? If the Idealists are right, then biology is darkness and the light is to come. You think? I don’t know. He knows. But can’t say – except in dreams, his famous eloquence, lit from within by a further light.