Resist your anthropocism for a moment,

     So few pleasures of this world would I define as radiant and labyrinthine. Grasp onto my meaning when I describe the following et cetera: there’s a bizarre pleasure in the tiny things along for the ride with our insignificant existence. An ice cream cone on Sunday from the unexpected truck making the neighborhood rounds, the innocent kiss of a shy child, opening a late birthday present you didn’t envision receiving.

     Studying the cosmos and the astrophysics comprising it all for ten hours straight, missing rise and set of the closest star justifiably blamed on the consumption of an all encompassing existence lacking an intelligent creation—you create the most gorgeous moment that’s undefined in its glorious warrants. Beyond it, magical in the moment of stepping outside the suicide door breaching the murderous world, newly learned and brave to see...
     Alpha Centauri A, B, and C dancing around a Venus lying in wake of a very Sirius Coma, dying for a Milky Way; that’s all we think of when we consider the cosmos—a charming joke of sharable quality, tales of spineless man, at the shoddiest stab of aforementioned animal-in-denial: a gravity-defying candy bar. Reduced to “nothing of bothering importance,” except it’s everything of me and you and the sun and the stars and the dogs, cats, plants, and animals roaming free. It’s the Sol if there ever were within, yet we go spiraling on to the fixed law of gravity as if none of it matters.