In my teenage years especially, I was deeply in love with the night sky. I would pore over whichever star atlases I could get my hands on, reciting the names to myself like an incantation. Every name held a magic which I could sense, but couldn’t name. Arcturus, Capella, Deneb, Procyon, Betelgeuse, Vega. Every star had a story, a song of its own. On the few clear nights that came along in winter, I’d sit outside, trying to identify the constellations. I was deeply steeped in mythology; I knew their stories too.