Crashing Planes

So these are the worlds, as they are, these ultimate states: the distant expanse, the mystery of the universe, and this town where what counts lies behind the literal, moves through moments like a lonely ghost but never really leaves. It knows my name - it may even be me, temporality aside. The shadow of the city and the specter of distant life, some mind beyond the red depths of space; they both know my name, and it is nothing special. The superimposition of worlds, of strata, is the truth of all things. There is no reduction, but there is primacy, greater weight from where we stand. To collapse many worlds into one: this is the imperative of sentience, maybe of all things. To collapse the possible into the actual and lose nothing, or very little: this is the whole of it. That, and to be haunted by the fact, by this world and all others, by what can be combined and by what is lost to the merely conceivable, despite all trying.