Joyful birthday, Bamm, brother of mine.
They were told that this monstrosity before them was their last hope. The Salvation, it was called, and even used ugly grammar. Children waved to it with little tears in their little eyes, which was saddest of all, since they must have been the most oblivious as to what the whole thing meant. There wasn’t one human body on that ship, but it somehow contained information that was essential to our survival.
It launched no problem, everything went according to plan. The sky was even serenely clear that day, a canopy of mango and lavendar, allowing us to see the ship travel its course, shrinking along the way, until it looked like an old pencil eraser. There was music, some of the last music we would hear, and a parade and smiling and food.
But after a while, the speck in the sky that had been visible for several hours–when nighttime came, it joined the stars–was gone, noticeably gone, leaving a gap between the other lights up there. As that gap grew, it grew more apparent that there is nothing the human can do to mitigate its lonesomeness, nothing involving its craftiness at least.
Love the Dust 