Upon a precipice, a jagged piece of rock like some great lonesome rib reaching above the dewy night, a few scattered and shriveled evergreens have grown, life, the dark forest, expanding where it can. And here, with my little rowboat, I’ve waited for the tide to swell and carry the stars within reach. I push the little vessel out, and she bobs in the air, her ripples tickling the sky.
I leave earth with a step, a simple step, boarding my small skiff.
Into the night sky, the starry sky, I sail, and it is wonderful, too wonderful to tell. Were I a wiser man, had I a thousand tongues with which to speak, I’d have no words to say but what I say. A man may sail through heaven, if his ship be light, and sail by those millions of millions within a lonesome dream.
Can I write the stars? Can any man write the stars? They are too wonderful.