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More than 28,000 miles above, the range of great grey earthen colors merge with the immense distance, a round shape of a certain place and time. A narrative is born. A short uncomplicated sequence that remains uncomplicated until the map is made into a map. The alphabet out of sequence creates fancy new words. Orbits are lovely plots and tides become wakes. And blues loose their electrostatic charge and become wet purple, dripping ocean. And the purples become nearly black. Browns and tans are summoned, their greenish borders almost cloud-white. Outer space leaks back into the black… the black is never anything but always nothing and the geography and history and physics unfold in the everyday grace of illumination. Every teeny crumby fucking little detail of home sweet home blends perfectly into one seamless planet drifting spin, a marbling glass pinball of quicksilver. A fantastic jeweled navel.

The hell with your feelings and your rainbows and your lucky numbers, your cold showers, your stinking bowels. Your games of spin-the-bottle draw blood into the breath. Who really doesn’t matter.

Only odd creatures would project such odd ends on other, vastly more intelligent creatures.

“We’re getting dangerously low on element 115. Let’s just crash this saucer in the desert so we can meet Jackie Gleason and teach an Israeli how to bend spoons with his mind!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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