I’m driving my automobile out into the Milky Way Galaxy. The time is somewhere beyond midnight and stars are dangled all around me. The driver’s window is rolled down and my elbow is flung out.
I’m a little worried about
space junk striking my elbow—especially when you consider a piece of debris very
recently struck the robotic arm on the International Space Station.
I have no map, only a sense of
the proper direction. Radio waves are
chasing me like friendly neighborhood dogs.
And, yes, I intend to obey the law of gravity and not exceed the speed
of light.
My plan is to drive on into the
spiral of dust and stars, whistling my own song, because that’s what voyagers
do.
—Mitchell Hegman
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