Telescoped worlds receding beyond the Event Horizon are nevertheless tethered to some relentless Desire pulling the strings.

True enough, we will all be barely remembered, shortly thereafter, without a trace, forgotten each to all and to one another.

Back to the grand harmony of fixed stars on crystal spheres and the naked eye… or some other equally enclosed explanation as involved as before, but still wrong.

As wrong as all beliefs stripped by the conceit of perfection wind up~blind, eventually scuttled to the edge of whichever galaxy.

There the night sky is always utterly black, not so much as a prick bleeding light through one pinhole in velvet to wish on.

Do the math—the arch reminder of what needs to be out there.

What’s to expect, then, from such a fundamentally cunning Cosmos poised on its own razor’s edge?

Merely that you and I, here, now, together by our very existence, at the very least by our unwarranted, privileged exposure to what’s disappearing, are invited once and for all to an elegant Mystery we’re obviously not meant to miss.

                                                                                                               Judith Harrington