A cinch to see shapes in the sky where stars are: estranged, rayed matter in Gargantua's web across countless tipless wells. Trackless ocean tons glint in motes. Pre-owned continental gunpowder drifts and falls in all dimensions around you. Whichever way you look en revanche is busier, so busy in avalanche, the biggest chalk cliff you ever hung-glid off. Two footfalls shoely shaved leaving their larger, rolling, leafy rime below, you could fall up to mere infinity and walk in the waves at timeset—when time touches the horizon—all while falling back down. Them stars were eeny miny dots in our heads, teensy dippers on that night screen. Your thread will not flip that around, much as it needs a flipper; and neither will your flipped's truly, but isn't it fun to try?

"I am a dot in the heads of stars, an invisible dipper in night's screen."