“The atoms that comprise life on earth are all traceable to the crucibles that cooked light element into heavy element.” —Neil deGrasse Tyson*
And up here we have Vega, rigged to a few older men, Jupiter’s herd of moons. Look through its eyepiece, convince us there is no such thing as reconstruction. The right time to return light, the path to earth. Yes, we are part, living or real. Such is the layout of this cosmic ballet. A naked man and woman, a map of earth’s location, unstable in their older years. He spreads himself so wide, hard at the heavens for two reasons. Fairly often, someone would call the police.
Handcuffs came from stars, next generation solar systems quantumly entangled. Size is only development condensed into a singularity, enriched guts against gears of war. So what does this mean? The breadth of the actions taken, meaning limitations, meaning sky was worth looking at. He charmed the cops with conversational boom, dozens of people crouching in the dark. Their common center of gravity:
darker barrel shaped streets with long rows of sold-out houses. It’s not a lecture—how to calculate latitude, one neck cramp at a time, an extension cord across Merlin’s Tour of the Universe to satellites gliding in low orbit, nine years to work its way out. The voice is deep and rowdy—from a man at the edge of the crowd. The other reason is down here on earth, down the handle of the Big Dipper. An artist will tell you—crank it some more, until it begins to glow blue. Red-hot is the coldest among all the hots.