Stars. Such a multitude, scarce to be counted. Filling the darkness with order and light. Like sentinels, silent and sure, keeping watch in the night. All in their place in the sky, holding their course and their aim. If they fall, they fall in flame.

No Master ever saw the star that fell, of course. The sky may be alive with leaping flames, yet the stars remain. Whatever falls is something else, still unknown. Let the commoners cling to their beliefs. That the shooting star can grant you your wish. So wish! No harm. Might serve to remind you of the innermost desire of your heart. Whoever knows the heart's desire might be prepared to catch the moment to make it come true. The one moment, perhaps, of a lifetime.

Or create your own moment. Like the Master. Wish and wit, working in harmony, gave life and shape to love. To know love was his heart's desire. His wish come true.

Still something nags.

The star chamber in the spire of the tower is the best place to immerse oneself in thinking or being. Reclining on the divan on adjustable bearings, the dome open to the sky, gaze lost in indigo eternity. Leisurely roaming among the shining grains, never nearer nor farther than this. Peace and freedom for a restless soul.

Tugging gently on the straps and the divan turns a little. The eyes walk along the Shiny Trail, the Celestial Band. To go there, leaving everything behind...

Coming back to himself with a start. Leave everything - even Her? Now? Unthinkable. A lingering remnant of an old dream, surely?

After all, She is all he ever dreamt. And yet something is missing. Not in Her but in him. Love ought to cut deeper, infuse his entire being. He lets himself be swept along but his mind still hovers above the flood. Something within him still keeps watch. Too cautious, too sensible yet to believe it? To believe in the dream come true? Despite the testimony of his eyes, ears, hands, lips?

Love. The study of his life. So simple and yet so ethereal. Body fluids, sensory stimuli. Commoners master it, not all but most. So how can it still escape his razor sharp scrutiny? Is it too plain? Is it there at all, in him? Or is this all there is to it?

Perhaps old habits just die hard. The ingrained, endless solitude, the lot of the Master. The shackle not so easily broken. Give it time. The drop shall hollow the stone. She is here. She was made for loving him. He made Her for loving Her. Trust in the Master's art.

Immersing himself in being, leaving such thoughts behind to follow the stars wheeling on across the sky.