Waste Paper

Today I scraped tiny glow-in-the-dark stars off of the ceiling of a childhood bedroom. They drifted to the floor and formed a scattered constellation of outgrown youthful whimsy, perhaps as distant as Andromeda and Ursa Major.

Waste paper.

"Your darkest days will become your brightest nights." Thus uttered the former inhabitant of said childhood bedroom. He is now an adult. He is a shining star.

We are all stars, aren't we?