There is an object
spinning in obscurity. It circles round an illustrious anchor of a star . If you were to see things from
the perspective of a woman on this rock, at times facing the brilliance of the
sun, at times the depth of space, your existence may seem ordered by light and dark in turn. A life goes like this, blinking moments of daylight and night. Time. A season. On this rock things cycle likewise. Now is my turn. Then the throng turns once more and it is another's. The woman lives her life in one small nook of her curvy host as it swings towards the abyss and old eyes close to darkness. Then her little corner of the world spins towards the sun and new eyes blinkingly take in the light. If you were limited to the perspective of this woman, lying on the soft bed of this spinning body, looking up to see the sky whirl above her, you may not know what
is coming, though the rock has been there many, many times before. How would you? You would
likely feel as though everything were new. Which would lead you to believe
everything is important. Which would imply that you have important choices
to make, as though the blood circling through your veins spins the whole world; as though the thoughts recycling through your brain tissue sets the
entire universe in motion.
