Stars shine on in a night sky so black you can see the truth. What is that light but an interruption to progress so blinding the sun blushesβ as if another light vandalized our ever darkening sky. Closing out on reality, opening up to ideals, itβs the rays piercing through the layers and the yea-sayers nodding off to sleep in a darkness so deep. When the genius strips off the latent, flexes its manifest intelligence, and puts down thoughts that flare into the darkness. No effort from a sun fibbing eternal. The end might come but the hand who writes eternity canβt see the end coming. Who are the geniuses expelling the light and who are the receivers not likely to admit their stupor for fear of fantastic phantasms. Fleeing from their folly, straying into strange, insipid serials, unending, not rerunningβ only growing obese with weight Of chances not spent.