We live on a faint point of light in space, and there are not many of us.

We keep reaching upward, leaving behind a plume of lives — memories, touches, fragments of being, knowing that a part of us will remain.

Even here, we have each other, and one day, for the lonely, there will be something to find — a trace that we were here once, something of us that will stay in them.

We keep rising, endlessly — toward the sun, and beyond it — as our memory splits across fog, into drops of the ocean, into stardust.

We keep rising.

We keep.

We.