Continents and countries come one after the other and the earth feels – not small, but almost endlessly connected, an epic poem of flowing verses.

Emilia-Romagna.

When you see the moon, or the pinkish tinge of Mars, you don’t think about the future of humanity but only, if anything, the logistical likelihood of you or anyone you know being lucky enough to go there.

How are we writing the future of humanity? We’re not writing anything, it’s writing us.

He’d told her once that if he were ever to be where she is, he’d spend his whole time in tears, helpless in the face of the earth’s bare beauty. But that he’d never be where she is because he’s a man who disappoints himself with his need of firm ground. He needs stability inside and out, and to simplify his life lest it overwhelm him. There are peo

If they listen to the radio at all it’s often for music or else something with an innocence or ultimate neutrality about it, comedy or sport, something with a sense of play, of things mattering and then not mattering, of coming and going and leaving no mark.

wiry-spry

The earth is a place of circular systems: growth and decomposition, rainfall and evaporation, alive with the cycling of air currents that shunt the weather around the continents. You know this of course, but in space you see it.

Alive and curious and restless. Never mind good. They’re beautiful because there’s a light in their eyes. Sometimes destructive, sometimes hurtful, sometimes selfish, but beautiful because alive. And progress is like that, by its nature alive.