The stars are not what they seem. Prepare, for they too have teeth.

What awaits at the altar? A wedding.

You hear the bells, you walk the streets, you find the church, you walk inside, and an old friend is there to accompany you down the aisle. The altar awaits beckons to you. "Come here," it says. "Come here, you who are heartsick and heavy laden, for I will give you rest."

What awaits you at the end of the aisle? A sacrament? An ethical obligation? A meaningless ritual? An old man wearing robes with a chalice in hand? Some mystical and fleeting experience, ecstatically felt and all too quickly forgotten? A small god who is nothing more to you than the liege lord of your tribe? An aloof being too distant to know?

No, at the end of the aisle is a wedding.

Whose? Yours.

To whom? The object of all the longing in your life, whether you were able to put it into words or not. She is the whither of your every thought, the "kuss mich" in the quiet moments, the whisper beyond whispering. She is there, always was there, and always will be there. "The Word became flesh and she chose to dwell with you." She loves you that much. She awaits you at the end of the aisle, and she will have no other. She is the mystery, the invitation, the horizon.

Consider carefully, and then say "I do."