At its end, we find that the arc of history is that of a sub-orbital rocket. Once we climbed, further and further from the Earth and soil that birthed us, ever closer to the world of abstracted physics, of photons gleaming on ice-rimed steel, endless orbits and the eternal vacuum.
On curiosity (and other sins)
Ah, my dear blue-eyed Epimetheus. You have left me a sleepless wreck. In twenty one days of searching, I have not discovered the true nature of the object you have left me, but I have at least found another term for it: the Zahir, the cage of consciousness. Except that doesn’t really work, does it?…
Burning black
Creation was a crystal sphere In my design. Completely clear To light that witnessed every space. Moved planets in their paceless paths, Bred ferns that flowed with scaled tongues And guided hearts. These laws defined The workings of each worldly part In my unending cosmic play. So this design I split to seven, And every…