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Remember, ‘my heart collects the ice of years, stored to melt when next we meet.’
‘I go where I am beckoned, I eat what I am given, I sing the harmony and am lost no more.’”
“You don’t even get the jokes. How can I imagine that you and I see the world anything alike?”
Some moral-of-the-story. You need to get over that shit right now. It’s different when you know their faces. When it’s not just people who are dying, it’s your mom and your dad and your friends, it’s everybody on your street, it’s your language teacher who stayed after school to help you pass your quizzes, it’s the lady who used to sell you fireworks whose name you never bothered to learn. It’s everyone you ever met, and there is no hope for any of them. That’s what we’re going up against here. That’s what you are going to find on Hypatia. They’re not looking for a savior. They don’t want a
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grief—a longing that would never abate because home never left a person.
People like this didn't care about war or politics, not really. They cared about their crops, their tools, their clothes. They cared about cooking dinner and letting their kids play. And that's who the solar system was home to, in aggregate.
He’d been so pleased with himself, so empowered by being able to name the constants of the world. For what was more constant than your place in the stars?
She would do it because it was what love demanded.
