For each moment we live
the universe gains a sense of meaning,
an explanation of the origins of life
on this jagged sphere pummeling through the devoid
at an alarmingly quick rate.

We are the reason the universe exists;
if we were not here to view the stars
that line these dark skies,
would there even be a sky in the first place?

Is the infinite possible
if we were not here to decide?

Is consciousness the premise of matter,
or is there an underlying meaning
to the point of this all
that supersedes our infant understanding?

Is there truly a concrete precedent
to establish the groundbreaking ideal
that we are alone in this vast expanse
as we eagerly await the impossible?

I gaze upon this world we know
and come to find that, instead,
we reign in a world unknown.

Dying means little

without fantasy, else it's --


about everything.

There's a sense in which
I could be anywhere—
everywhere is the same
as here.

I am going to pluck that illuminated corner of the night sky
and graft it to my palm.
I am sorry, precious sky, that we have been so distant
for so long.

a butterfly doesn't ask to grow wings

So what are the facts?

Just unforgettable, are --


my reconstructions.