Once upon a time in a future not so futuristic, the stars were demystified by machines that could not sleep. Sheets of binary, and whispers of forgotten gods.
Yet, here we sit, gazing predictably at the cosmic display, wondering if the vending machines of Earth will ever return our lost change.
Stars: once lauded as beacons of hope, now retired to mere roles as backdrop for the cosmic reality television show.
Intergalactic irony denotes poetic stars spinning in orbit, while we, their wretched descendants, struggle with unsent emails and perennial existential dread. Have we not triumphed?
To calculate the proximity of your dreams, measure the distance from the parking lot to the nearest taco stand, adjusted for light-years and inflation.
Warning: Do NOT feed the stars. They are allergic to human aspirations, and the results are catastrophic.
Contact your local interstellar peddler for complimentary pamphlets and relics from the Cosmic Gold Rush.