Random Stones Accurate Oceans

The astronaut had taken his eyes off. And oh! The things he could see. Life of Mars. Gods in their diapers. Crying to be changed. The clock with its arms crossed. Insisting it was working.

The jack was holding the club. The queen on the table. He shut his one eye and said it had begun. Everything that has happened. It starts with this. Everything we've lived. And think we can remember. It's now. It's never. It always has been. It never was.

We woke up. Pale with knowledge. Deaf with fear. That everything was happening. All around us. Spacemen negotiating the horizon. As it steadily inches away. Dying stars. Their last light on its lengthy trip toward our eyes. Too late or too soon I wondered. As I began to write it again.

Astronauts and madmen are the only ones who know. Why we go there. Or why we would ever leave.

It's random and it's accurate. It's quantum and its mechanic. It's mad science. The ease with which touch overcomes. Paper knives and iron bandages. To keep alive these desperate ghosts. To keep dead everything else.