I still find it difficult to see the night sky for what it is. I see the tips of pins without the pins. I want the missing t, what, the tisane?, or D, of extraterrestrial unfolding gaps. The emptiness is an encompassing glowworm of gloom, and I am an ecstatic music listener. There is no separation, no screen, between your head and the infinite heavens, the transcendental speaker spoke, the shaman from a priest. I only hear the speakers dove-landed on my ears, my headsides, my temple sills. What is the difference, the separation, a screen, between dance music and that furnace cooled to November light, a reminder of day from a distant planet that once had one.