To bear intimate witness to the universe — its stars delicately suspended along the vast precipice of nothingness — is to behold the glory of human existence.
I can personally attest to this, as I’ve inadvertently ejected myself from my space station and have been in an oppressively slow and aimless orbit just above Earth’s atmosphere for about three days. I know it’s been three days because I’ve attempted to count the Indonesian Islands three separate times, each time landing on a different number which has then launched me into a paralyzing fit of imposter syndrome roughly the length of the Pacific Ocean.
While humbling to think that I may live out the remainder of my prime stress years juxtaposed against the tragic beauty of the cosmic infinite, I can’t help but wonder:
A. How that lever could have maybe been more clearly labeled as to its potential for ushering in this new existential reality via the dark vacuum of space;
B. Why no one has come to get me, because based on the uncontrollable giggling I can hear coming from my headset, I’m still very much in signal range;
and C. Whether or not, upon my swift exodus, my crew saw me fear-vomit — which is perhaps why they’re laughing, now that I think about it.
But mostly I’m hoping I don’t collide with any Russian satellites, because they are literally everywhere up here.
Ah, but the mysteries of the expanse continue to beguile…
Letterpress printing, Edition of 10, 4" x 5", 2016