When you look out over Los Angeles from the Hollywood Hills, the sun long since sunk over the western horizon, the pin-pricks of light stretch on until infinity. Greens and reds in orderly rows, with yellows and whites and blues scattered on top, a glittering layer of space dust rained down from above. It all pulses in the rising currents of air, warmth emanating from each body, in every direction, for as far as our eyes can see. The sky is slate gray; we’ve blocked out the heavens.
“Why is this beautiful?”, I ask.
“Perhaps it reminds us of stars”, he says.
I imagine one who stood where I now sit, their soles attuned to the earth below.
“Why is this beautiful?”, they asked.
The earth stretched out before them, veiled by the night. Overhead, a blanket of light.