Out here on the perimeter, there are no stars.

He tells the sun, 'Don't shine,' and it doesn't; he pulls the blinds on the stars.

Each star, numbered. Each star, named! Like every grain of sand. Every hair on his head. Every trouble that filled his day. Created. Numbered. Known.

O, Lord, help me to lift my eyes and look to the heavens and acknowledge who created all these. You bring out the starry host one by one, and call each of them by name. Because of Your great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing. (Isa. 40:26)

The inability to comprehend fully the mysteries of God does not in any way curtail the Christian faith. On the contrary, it enhances our belief. We do not understand the intricate pattern of the stars in their courses, but we know that He who created them does, and that just as surely as He guides them, He is charting a safe course for us.

Beneath those stars is a universe of gliding monsters.

When we look up at night and view the stars, everything we see is shinning because of distant nuclear fusion.

A galaxy is composed of gas and dust and stars - billions upon billions of stars. Every star may be a sun to someone.

There are as many atoms in one molecule of DNA as there are stars in a typical galaxy.

Black holes may be apertures to elsewhen. Were we to plunge down a black hole, we would re-emerge, it is conjectured, in a different part of the universe and in another epoch in time . . . Black holes may be entrances to Wonderlands. But are there Alices or white rabbits?

Space is almost infinite. As a matter of fact, we think it is infinite.

You know how a star is supposed to twinkle? We say twinkle because that is how it looks, but when a star feels itself, it's not a twinkle, it's more like a throb. Star throbs. Over and over and over. Like this. Stars just throb and throb and throb and sometimes, when they can't throb anymore, when they can't hold it anymore, they fall out of the sky.