rereading sagan, again, and rumis poems are right next to him on the shelf, and feynman too…it's not some grand intellectual statement, just how the books landed. like how things bump up against each other in my head too, wonder and grief and particle physics, all jumbled together. feels almost like a secret the way those three books look next to each other, because what is a universe if not a collection of poems made of dying stars, if we’re consciousness watching itself how can there not be longing.