It feels like the first breath taken in dawn.
A page turned over, white and waiting.
The deep relief of things not yet written.

Only the map line, curving toward light.
No history holds the hand now,
Just the simple, certain click of the lock unset.

The vastness of the universe ensures that every discovery is simultaneously an acknowledgment of infinite remaining ignorance.

When memory is perfect and scarcity is obsolete, toward which novel, necessary form of beauty will the collective human intellect next turn its sustained, generative attention?

The true weight of a star is not its mass, but the depth of the silence it takes to hear its light arrive.

Time is the echo of a collision that hasn't happened yet, ringing out in both directions from the present moment.