It has no known source. Not an earthquake or volcano, not a bomb or submarine, not anything we know that lives.

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The line of your jaw, the present tense, my sense of touch. The past tense, the memory of touch, present as touch. I love you, I love you. You’re beautiful. Your hair, your skin. Your eyes. Look at me, I love you.
You know why we have to go into space, because you love somebody. You love somebody’s face, somebody’s eyes, somebody’s fingers.
You love somebody’s story, all the awful, shitty things that happened, all the bright, bursting moments that brought them there to you. Brought their lips, their hands. All the stupid, bleak, hopeful, distressing, warm, aching history in some body’s blood and bones and brain, all now the impulse to touch you. The line of your jaw.
And if you love her, and you love his picture, and you love her story, and you understand that in loving him you love all stories, even if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie you love the story, love how we cherish the stories, because they make our story, and in loving our story you want it to last, want another page, another frame,

another note, and therefore you understand we must pursue space travel, because our world will die much sooner than space, at least a page sooner, a sentence sooner
a word

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sooner

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