Each One Of Us Is A Statistical

What If I Am, In Some Way, Only A Sophisticated Fire That Has Acquired An Ability To Regulate Its Rate Of Combustion And To Hoard Its Fuel In Order To See And Walk?

Every Time We Walk Along A Beach Some Ancient Urge Disturbs Us So That We Find Ourselves Shedding Shoes And Garments Or Scavenging Among Seaweed And Whitened Timbers Like The Homesick Refugees Of A Long War.

The Journey Is Difficult, Immense. We Will Travel As Far As We Can, But We Cannot In One Lifetime See All That We Would Like To See Or To Learn All That We Hunger To Know.

Lights Come And Go In The Night Sky. Men, Troubled At Last By The Things They Build, May Toss In Their Sleep And Dream Bad Dreams, Or Lie Awake While The Meteors Whisper Greenly Overhead. But Nowhere In All Space Or On A Thousand Worlds Will There Be Men To Share Our Loneliness.

Each One Of Us Is A Statistical Impossibility Around Which Hover A Million Other Lives That Were Never Destined To Be Born.