Space is big. Somewhere everything and anything fits. Dogs float in metal cans. Chimps pilot rockets. Their eyes are burnt with sights of comets and erupting stars. Below them a man cuts up sounds, endlessly rearranging them into an approximation of interest. The air is still. It's still there, but it's hard to remember that. A monkey wears a necklace, another a spacesuit. Ants learn of gravity and weightlessness. A sand grain drifts in a slow spiral. Sleep is a novelty. There is darkness and there are tiny points of light. The man imagines he is alone. With his thoughts he thinks. He is older than the animals. He is hungry. He forgets they cannot hear him; they cannot hear anything. A radio plays a transmission of a fading heartbeat, a dying loop reaching the end. The man recalls old friendships and loves. This is where they have led him. A small amount of space in an infinite spread. The time for jokes has ended. Now there is navigation to be done.
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