I prefer the cold exteriority of space. It is blameless, after all.
Humans choose their banal foolish evil.
And it never never may contain beauty.
Facing outward may deliver the fate of Major Tom. A very human conclusion after all, though he passes in darkness; he loves his wife and she knows.
But hell is other people, so right about that. Those tracks lead only to the death camps.
So easy to conflate the null vastness with malevolence. The mind must be very wide indeed to conceive of the neutral, the objective, of time's truthful result.
It hurts less, all told, to choose the stars. One can still love in the human dimension, after all. Children will sit in your lap, kiss your fingertips, open their hearts. A husband will cherish and wonder at his household rock-bound dervish.
This is how the world looks to me now: so wide open, so pure, so unutterably wordlessly perfect.
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