What are things but their meaning to us if materialism is precisely the domain of non-meaning (even their fathers say so) and true things-in-themselves - as old Kant said - are forever unknowable.

With that being said, I've always liked to see stars as hope. Hope from distant souls that came before us - souls that have endured the long and cold night and kept their candlelight aflame.

Their glow is faint and minute yet many and undying. They illuminate the night sky precisely when no other source of light is in sight, to solitary existences in desolate lands, far away from the radiant screens and neon lights, chatters of the crowd and the busyness of trade.

They disclose themselves only when one looks straight-up to the sky - without glancing left and right. Its true beauty to be rejoiced right at-the-present moment, to be etched only in memory, for it cannot be seized nor shared by any poetry nor image capturing devices. Its true beauty only to be relished by those it is revealed to - those truly alone before the Infinite.