Am I the sleepy badly shaved guy that is already late to work?
The one looking at the mirror like a twin watching his agonising brother?
There's nobody else. It's not you and the cosmos. You won't feel your aura in communion with the universe and the stars as they'll no doubt try to sell you on cheap esoteric books.
Andromeda, Orion, Cassiopeia, Ganymede... just notes from wiser men watching through telescopes.
I am the weird little man touching up his hair, raising an eyebrow and winking at you in the club's loo.
Like those who claim to see a great bear in Ursa Major, eagles, crabs or swans in a bunch of dead stars. Joining the dots to that constellation might prove dangerous.
Like that girl rehearsing postures and chat up lines. Practising that cynical smile she got from the pages of a fashion magazine she bought earlier.
Because there is nothing that makes us all into one.
And in the end it will only be you and the sleepy guy staring back at you.