Since the age of four one summer night staring into the starlit sky, I've always wanted to be launched into space, released from gravity and the specifics of this world. And in that desire, to know without knowing, the consequence of drowning in love. Space Boy, my alter ego – me, now– living out of a wet dream orbiting the void of infinite darkness, finally finally finally finds his wings. My guess: This is all physics and God. And after an eternity, I reach for the membrane – the tidy but elusive bag that is the outer limit of space, this expanding joke we're stuck in – I can feel the end of this story, but can't comprehend it. Certainly, I hear voices, technical ones, singing, too. Angels or the whisking of matter into the friendly neighborhood black hole? I have a series of questions written down, ready to ask, and now now now on the very edge of verisimilitude my reasons for traveling this far are clear, and the answers come pitter pat pitter pat pitter pat raining down raining down. To know right place, right time... the big sleep. Am I only a pile of earth connected by tubes and machines monitoring my all? And just before I fall backwards to the infinite beginning, the mise en abyme, I am reassured by voices (my own?) that ... the attempt is all.