The beeps become monotonous, and the lights become pulse, breath, and thought. Arnold closes his eyes and breathes. He shivers and opens them again. He turns toward the window. The stars outside are tiny and white.
Concentration brings out millions of individual spots of light.
Daydreaming turns them into a single, dull glow. In the station, it is easy to call the stars a foreign place. Out here, they are native, and they beg for attention. They demand to be looked at, but not through any conscious device. Only by being bright and many, endless and individual.