I had the best starry bedroom ceiling of any little kid, ever—my Dad painted it and placed the glow-in-the-dark stars in their actual positions. There were constellations and everything.
We had to paint over it before we put the house up for sale, and I cried as I peeled the stars off and placed each one of them in a cardboard jewelry box. I was destroying a small universe: the only one I’d ever known. I wonder how long they glowed in there before dying. Though if they are anything like their archetypes, they never stopped.