Neverend-Game

Idiot idiot idiot. There, another word all used up. I had been saving that one.

For the trillionth time, I'm reminded of a play I once saw about a blind old man and his faithful servant. _Infinite emptiness will be all around you,_ he said, _and there you'll be like a little bit of grit in the middle of the steppe._

A bit of grit in the steppe! He has _no idea._

Lucky old man. I certainly don't have a faithful servant.

I have built and destroyed a thousand universes in my mind, written countless fictional histories and imaginary biographies. None comfort me in the slightest.

Then I wonder: _Wasn't *someone* in the history of time as stupid as me?_

Back in real life, oh so long ago, there were those who raved about crop circles and flying saucers. They would say: _Given the vastness of the universe, isn't it certain that other life is out there?_ To which I would say: _Maybe, but that same vastness makes it unlikely to be right next door._

For the first time numberless eons, I wish I were less rational.