He could always see the faint starlit halo when he closed his eyes. It was like a streak of silver linings marking the colour of his destiny. Light blue on silver blue. He knew every time that his life made sense or that it would surely make sense, as if the vaults of his eyelids were etched with the map of his fate. They reflected the deep pools of his soul into which he could simply let himself go and be carried by the tide of infinite space and time: a soul has no temporal coordinates, not a beginning, not an end.