When I was young my nights were often visited by a dream, always the same; the whole sky was whirling, moving, and some unlimited, such as in the painting of Van Gogh the Starry Night, and some mysterious objects felt down from that starry maelstrom and landed on my balcony.
In the morning I never found anything in front of my window, and the stars never moved around. In some place I figured out how big is the number of stars. Billions. In himalayan nights starry streams came down across the clear air untill the horizon, where the land of humans meets the kingdom of absolute.
And the comet Yakutake broke the eternal static of sky.