Many people, when they look at the night sky, become dreamers. The vast black field with small beacons sprinkled all over it – to them it is open to any and all interpretations. When I look at them, the punctures in pitch-black darkness, I see death. Those dots, those tiny dots of light are nothing more than the last glimmer of stars long burnt out. Maybe they even annihilated an entire solar system and a civilization when they went supernova, or maybe they spent their whole existence alone. The last lonely candle, flickering somewhere in a cript until it suffocates under all the dust. And all that’s left of their former grandness are fading lights that travelled thousands of years only so unknowing humans could look up to them and forget those dots are a memento mori.