Idiot idiot idiot.
There, another word all used up. I had been saving that one.
For the trillionth time, I’m reminded of a play I once saw about a blind old man and his faithful servant. Infinite emptiness will be all around you, he said, and there you’ll be like a little bit of grit in the middle of the steppe.
A bit of grit in the steppe! He has no idea.
Lucky old man. I certainly don’t have a faithful servant.
I have built and destroyed a thousand universes in my mind, written countless fictional histories and imaginary biographies. None comfort me in the slightest.
Then I wonder: Wasn’t someone in the history of time as stupid as me?
Back in real life, oh so long ago, there were those who raved about crop circles and flying saucers. They would say: Given the vastness of the universe, isn’t it certain that other life is out there? To which I would say: Maybe, but that same vastness makes it unlikely to be right next door.
For the first time numberless eons, I wish I were less rational.
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