Luna

The story goes that some thing very large slammed into the side of the rocky boiling mass of gas and magma that was the Earth four and a half billion years ago. A cosmic fender bender. The resulting projectile was flung out into space, to the outer reaches of a gravity field, and locked into a perpetual dance. This chunk of rock marks our seasons and has represented the principle of eternal return in all of our mythic tales and scared texts. It draws the tides, a fundmental pre-condition of life evolving, and it is said to draw our moods as well. It's reflection of sunlight has projected earthward since the deepest time. Dinosaurs and mammoths saw the same. Who else has counted its cycles, its waxing and waning, and found measures that hold more than personal interest. What does it mean to look upon a vision looked upon for so long by everything that can look? Why does the moon enchant me so? It's persistence, perhaps. The lesson it holds. What other things mark time now that resulted merely from accidental encounter? How else have cosmic accidents come to measure the rhythm of my own time? Organic time moves in one direction and yet its effects linger forever. Each thing, just the history of some other set of things. We are not islands, separated from others by a gaping sea and immeasurable space; space is the illusion of the quanta. We are all-too-crowded inside a fishbowl comprised of our own detritus. In this case, which seems to be the case, be sure to make what you would like to see. For you will sit amongst it for eternity.

Carnage making carnage, violence making violence. We have pushed it and its echoes wave all around. The means are all we have. And that is the ultimate tragedy here.