I was small. I remember that my pajamas were strange. Black with tiny stars all over them. When I moved under the night sky, the stars moved on my pajamas. I was in a kind of sand box. Invisible beings flew gracefully nearby. They began to brush images into the sand with their wingtips. You could see just a vague outline of the wings because there were sparks where they shaped the sand. Colored sparks; little lightnings. And then the images began to form before me. The incredible detail of the forest. A scene from the plains. The dream of a bird. A seastorm at war with a craggy shore. A living wave of animals. A shifting situation on a city street. A place where snakes were gathering. The moon as the clouds obscure and reveal it. Beneath the incredible creativity and power of the wings, the sand shifted almost like a fluid, somehow abstracting the heart’s silent windows into moving images upon its surface, each of which were fraught with such profound emotion — reminding me more deeply of myself, our world; your eyes so like these starry eternities of sky.