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Whenever he closed his eyes and pressed into his eyelids with his fingers he liked to pretend that the pinpricks of light were stars. Pretty and glinting against his pupils as they danced. He liked to imagine that as they changed colour and morphed, they spread, past his eyes and into his head, filling the space in his brain with stars. Then they would flow from his head down his throat, fill his chest and coarse through his limbs to his toes and fingertips. His whole body crowded, packed with constellations and planets. Shooting stars and asteroids. Deep purples and reds and blues weaving their way through the tiny sparkling dots and swirling together like paint. He is everything. He's made of the night sky and he is what people plead to grant their wishes. The world doesn't revolve around him, no. But he fills the gap between the earth and the moon, and if you looked up in the dark then he would be all you see.
And when he took his hands down from his eyes and slowly let them open, he would go to the window, look up at the stars, and admire himself.