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Somehow, space is so deeply melancholy that it’s not at all sad, like a note so low it ceases to sound. Even my sorrow about my insignificance feels insignificant.
when adoration is selfish, it’s not going anywhere.
to our retro radio hour, where the holos are down and the screens are black. Pull out your old Amérique du Nord chair, split a coconut, and swirl some milk into your yerba mate. I’m your host, Ibu Putu. Remember, our intelligence might be low, but at least it’s not artificial.”
Intimacy is the only shield against insanity. Intimacy, not knowledge. Intimacy, not power.
Your heart is only good for pumping your blood, says my brain. I am the source of both what you feel and what you think.
Update from Earth’s radio history (I’m recording the transmissions to OS’s storage, by the way, so you can peruse them yourself): shortly after I recorded the last letter to you, there was another burst of chatter, all about an oncoming asteroid. They scrambled a ship to intercept it, but it must not have succeeded. There was a huge spike in radio signal from Earth, but not communication. The sort that the sun emits. The sort released by a giant explosion. There were no more transmissions from Earth, not ever again. You’re all there is. Love, Ambrose #13
