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The problem with telescopes was that they didn’t like to show him what he really wanted to see. It could be that it was only fair this way–he’d had his own share of relevant ambiguities in the past, penned constellations and asteroids along the same vein of tranquility that other astronomy aficionados achieved by hurling darts at the wall, but the truth of the matter was that the night sky was too bright and the world twirled on an axis that was too brittle. And brightness and brittleness, for what they were worth, were altogether meaningless when all he wanted to do was romanticize the rocks in the sky.
Because there had been that one time, when Takao had caught a star.
The star was the kaleidoscopic equivalent of a sparkling dream. During the day it was grey and dull and almost ugly, but on nights when the moon was particularly dark and the clouds were notes in a slow jazz song, the star would sparkle. It would fucking sparkle. Nobody would know that a star could fucking sparkle in such a delightful manner. Takao had fallen in love with the star like that, decided that he would hold it captive in his room to make sure that he was the only one who could see the star like this.
“You’re being a dick,” the star said to Takao. “I want to go home. I don’t feel very lucky at all.”
“Shut up, Shin-chan,” said Takao. “You can leave when I’m finished writing this cell-phone story. I’m going to become famous with this one! An internet star. Just you wait.”