Wood Spirit

Here it is the wrong bottle, the one that takes the eyes, the reason you ask who distilled what somebody's uncle brought.

A thousand light-years out, in Perseus, it is the commonest of the complicated things, and around the young stars, the quiet ones, the kind our sun was, it is being knocked into light.

Not light you could see. Microwaves, out of a shock front where, they think, the star, still feeding, runs a hot fit, the gas collides, and each molecule that shines sets the next one shining.

They looked at eleven. More than half had it, mostly the youngest. Dishes in a Chilean desert picked it out.

I won't call it a lamp. It is the same stuff. It is only that out there being struck is how it shines, and there is no one to drink it, and nothing in the way.