Divinity is not replicated; it is bestowed upon a few stars that condensed light years of orbital forces into perfect biomes that hold breath, dreams that one can only wish to fabricate. Those dreams are never short of deep-treaded footpaths and steps thoroughly researched, yet they fall short on the very blueprints that reject the darkness and invite nightmares – the intuition of a soul, the foresight of a century, and the gift of a timing fortune. Should planners account for such ambiguities, things could work out just fine, in any case, there are only so many failures one could make in their lifetime to stumble across perfection. Whence such optimism is sustained, on the belief that greatness derives from effort uncorrupted by intangible wanton stardust, and that so long as the night sky is black, there is always a spot for the undivine.