Nights of richest blues that become the purest black, hug heaven's eyes so sweetly, the ones that shine so bright.
When you tell of me of the stars, tell me of the black, for it is together they make the beauty of the night-heavens.
In a black that has the strength of midnight blue whispering to its heart, balletic stars take to their stage.
If the souls dreaming in this city became as lights in the blackness, they would very much be as awe-striking as the stars.
Stars embedded into the black night bring beauty to one another, as only complementary opposites ever can.
And in the night sky were stars, as if God had sprinkled them so sugar-sweet upon the most perfect of black birthday cakes.
The dusk comes as a promise of starlight, of those brilliant pearls of the nighttime that sit as if cushioned upon pure black velvet.
In every direction there is a star, should I fly into the universe any way would be the right way. I tilt my head, gazing upward, eyes more open than they can be in the fullness of day, not looking at one star, yet somehow seeing them all at once.
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