"Doesn't it look empty to you?"
What do you mean, little girl? It never looks empty, because in an expanse of sky there can be clouds and rain storms and blue turning to green at the edges. It's a diaphanous green, an almost-there-but-not-really green, and it melts into the ground sometimes. The change in colour has something to do with the atmosphere, I think. There are too many gases in the air and that causes the world to look larger.
And yet here you are, little girl, and you're telling me it looks empty. You're asking me whether I agree. And how can something so full of rockets and stars and a million suns be empty? Well, maybe not completely full of them. But something needs empty space in order to look pretty. Negative space, if you ask the artist.
Why don't you ask the artist, little girl? I'm sure he knows much more of emptiness than a lonely stargazer with a telescope and a cloudy sky. I mean, it does kind of have that charcoal-like quality to it when it's night time and there are clouds, but that's just because it's heavy and tired with the weight of them. Sometimes when things are too full they appear empty. It sounds paradoxical, sure, but what is life if not a paradox?
And wait until they move, little girl. Wait until the rain comes and washes them away - it has a tendency to do that - and then you can see the stars. Venus and Jupiter and Mars, only those are planets. Yes, planets like Earth. They just look like stars a little because the light from the sun hits them and explodes into a million colours, a million colours that all together look like one. That's the magic of science, little girl. It has a tendency to not make sense unless you look at it really close.
But I can't say that, so I just tell her to come back tomorrow. Maybe I'll take you on a trip around the universe then.