Two big stories in The New York Times caught my attention today.
One, you might have heard about... Eliot Spitzer and trysts that it seems everyone is talking about on earth.
Then another, tucked deep inside the same paper, in the science section, predicting the end of the earth
The latter stuck with me.
Because 7.59 billion years from now, the former won't mean a thing.
Because the earth will be done. Finished. Kaput. That's why.
That's when some astronomers calculate our world will be dragged from its orbit and spiral into what the Times calls, "a rapid vaporous death."
And all because our sun will grow bigger and bigger, brighter and brighter in its own last dying gasp that will take our solar system with it.
Then we're done. Terra firma gonna… just like that.
Everything we know. Everything we knew. The wars. The scandals. The gossip.
All memories and distant ones at that, of a people I hope would have the good sense to colonize other galaxies, so they can start new wars, and new scandals, and new gossip.
If not, what happened here on this planet will stay on this planet until there is no planet.
And the things that fixate us won't matter because there won't be an us.
Just deep, black space. As it began. As it ends.
Kind of makes Eliot seem like a Spitzer in the ocean.
Until you realize, wait a minute, there is no ocean.
It's all a memory. If there's anyone around anywhere to remember anything at all.
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