Paper, so real, so unbending, that writing is like trying to contain light into a liquid. Those brilliant suns within my mind, will never see any other light but their own. If their are seen, if I can suffer to bring them down from their lofty perches into the the text, then they will be nothing but distant perversions of the bright torches they are. Their breath, size, light, and warm fire--all hidden by the murky lengths they need to travel to reach the readers eyes. All that remains is a star, a point of light, a pin hole in the sky letting a few drops of the great light through to the world.
And the orchestra of the stars swell. Light scratching of the strings, brazen bellowing of the brass, whistling of the woodwinds! The conductor, osculating with the very energy of life, dances on the stage, bringing out the very best, the very worst, and the geniuses of the players. They bow, they play. Everyone cheers for the performance and slink away when its done, promising to come when the next one comes around.
But then the stars burn out, leaving nothing but a cold soup of gases for the listeners to taste.