Your star was set alight, a satellite, giving us direction as it fell out of the sky. A burning ball, a wishing well, we gazed upon its beauty as upon our own reflection. You read it’s death as if it carried meaning, but if this star just fell in line, our life would be a world apart. It burned out bright, but only for a moment, before it lost its spark, then all was dark, and nothing but a remnant of what used to be a roaring fire, that would inspire all of us who ever had a dream, to catch this very star, as it tore from all that held it and raced out from the heavens to see another side. The heavens waved goodbye, knowing that the sun would not complete, but compete and steal it’s light. This is nothing new, like a victim chasing truth; a star will set out every day, discovering a whole new world. A pity, it won’t survive, for if it could it would signal the rest of us and beckon “follow suit”, yet we, with dreams accomplished, would still feel unfulfilled. Fantasy is that which asks us to desire the impossible, but takes away control, to believe, even inconceivable things, and with that roll away our current state of reality. Such is with the flame that’s become your shooting star, who desires to be freed from what it was created to be, from form, circumstance, responsibility. We all know, however, that it’s true, a star’s place is the night sky, it’ll find no better home, it’ll find no better role, it’ll find no greater fulfillment, than providing its own specific, generic talent. As we gaze upon your star, ever present, trustworthy, we find a beauty, more dazzling than daytime, for your star can show the twinkle in it’s eye. And all is right again; your actor takes his place, one of many extraordinary works of luminescence.