A line streaks through the cloud
Almost as quickly as it appeared it scatters into the illuminated abyss trapped inside this small glass box.
We marvel at this spectacle, this tiny cloud, this widowed box unto the galaxy beyond our walls.
We are not captivated by these apparitions of fleeting abstractions that some might call an exercise in modern art. No, our wonder stems from all that we’ve sought prior.
The concerted pursuit of amazing realities.
For when we look upon this box we do not see lines in the fog we see the magnetic cyclones of stars past hurling through the galaxy pushing the plasma that surrounds them to incomprehensible speeds close to that of light itself and at once these haphazard ions swirling in the farthest reaches of our galaxy at distances made relevant to us by numbers uncountable find themselves on a journey to us centuries upon centuries before we are even born.
This cosmic rain, unchecked by the eons, finds its end upon the ceiling of our sky where it creates the messengers that streak down from the heavens to this tiny box in this tiny room perched upon this tiny pale blue dot with only the eyes of these two to receive it.
A small monument to its journey and ours.