A notebook bulletin board
tacked on when randomly bored
applied thoughts in a scribblebook
open for the world to look who passes by
so fast to see like a needle in a haystack we
safely stash those innermost secrets thought to be
at least you see languishing up and into pristine
blossoms for you to pick and sniff and hope
they don't make you sick.


Tempest Redshift

In real life we are the characters in a story, who gradually transform into microwaves, then spool out into longer radio wavelengths, only to be scanned and listened to fruitlessly by remote alien civilizations.  

The echoes of our mutual cries of exoneration, after having traveled an otherwise unfathomable distance, finally wash over us as so much static noise.

For that is what they have become in there (points to the stars)

That is precisely where we are going.   

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