The sky is full of stars. Little blinking lights that come out to say hello when papa has gone to bed. They don't try to, but they make shapes in our eyes. Signals of hope and legends. They light up distant planets, and they'll never know, because their light is too bright.
This planet is full of cities. Sprawling skylines of concrete and glass housing fragile things called people, placed there by chance and circumstance. They hover, unaware of the gravity that pulls them around. The great masses of obligation and fear that pull. They don't try to either, but they make shapes too. They drift together and apart, unaffected by the gravity of others.
These people are full of life. Thoughts and emotions so unfathomably complex, placed there by chance and circumstance, by a God we don't understand. Clouds of every conceivable state of being which drift, aimlessly and uncontrolled in our heads and hearts. Sometimes the shapes aren't clear. There are only dots, but we do our best, we fail, and we learn.
Inside everyone is a galaxy. Brightly lit dreams and burning passions. Moons of memory and great lumps of emotion. Clouds of tears and joyful white noise bouncing around our personal cosmos. All of it is pulled around by gravity, slowly brought together until we are.
Every life begins with an explosion of color and fear and every life ends with a whimper. Between here and there is a smoldering campfire where you made love for the first time. The place where you looked up at the shapes in the stars and thought of all the wonderful things you would be and do.