Getting back out of my house once more.
“You might try then, as I did, to find a sky so full of stars it will blind you again. Only no sky can blind you now. Even with all that iridescent magic up there, your eye will no longer linger on the light, it will no longer trace constellations.”
-Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves
The problem is that you think a constellation is a picture. You see in the Night Sky’s plumage an unknowable design–but merely a design, to be studied for meaning, for intent. But would you study it for its use?
A pair of points makes a line, and each line is a connection, yes, but also a barrier, a demarcation separating one side from another, a within from a without. And in the Night Sky, millions of lines, millions of walls become a vast, shining labyrinth, home and prison to Existence’s greatest shame and most inexorable inevitability.
When the Night Sky first dreamed the world into being, he had yet to look upon it. As he did, the multiplicity of his subconscious vision greeted him: the earth, the forests and fields and seas, the creatures, the first gods and their Magics, and yes, of course, mankind. But beneath it all, a second greeting, singular, arose from the darkness. It was Hunger. It was Lack. It was Cold. It was Freedom. It was Song and Promise and Desire, All That Was Not, All That Should Have Been, All That Might Yet Be. The humans gave it many names–the Minotaur, the Wendigo, the Voice that whispered and sang in the night–for it hunted and devoured them with a cold and unfathomable tenderness.
To spare the rest of his dream, the Night Sky sealed the darkness in the space between the stars. Its whispers would not be silenced, and its hunger–the hunger of all creation–would not be sated, but for a time, none could heed its call. They would look skyward and be saved, struck senseless by the vast array of beauty and light.