An immortal stands, cloaked in Space, but outside Time.
Circling his hands like a conductor encouraging an orchestra to pick up the tempo, he gathers star dust.
When enough dust is collected, he mixes it like a cook baking a cake. The twinkling lights swirl round the vast, black, interstellar bowl.
Taking a pinch, he sprinkles the embers like a gardener sowing crop. Where the cinders land fortunes are found and futures flourish.
For a moment he might watch the mortals like ants over rubbish, but regardless he continues to gather, like an eternal bin man collecting the universal trash.