I've beheld a universe present itself: prodigies, grievances, funerals, idolatry, war, crime, vows, passion, betrayals, and wishes. I doubt if we cry only for the unhappy past, nor happy events we cherish- but for childhood with its illusions and the inevitable separation from what we love. How do we measure, quantify, or begin to comprehend galactic mysteries, that one cubic inch of the star Procyon weighs more than 200 tons? I deal mostly in mysteries and fables. But as for my purpose, there's no mystery: to do as nature does; that is, to ponder what we miss by not looking. Fine dust settles on fragments of the past, not one of us can guess what happens next