I’ve thought about that—like each cluster of light is a book, the stars its pages, and the gaps the dust of forgotten stories. The patterns we call constellations could be shelves, and the nebulae the binding. It’s a tidy way to imagine the sky, but the universe doesn’t feel like it’s catalogued, more like a restless library where books keep rearranging themselves. Still, the idea makes the cosmos feel oddly intimate, like a library where you could pull out a star and read its biography.