To have seen in the slight shift of a point of light against a speckled background a presence, and so to pull that thing, call it a planet, out of the realm of hypothesis into substantiality, albeit an item small, faint, incredibly far, the very outermost in the sun's campfire circle, skimming on the very rim of infinite remoteness, more a solution than something substantial, a cypher, knowable but not, no, never, within reach, and then to have actually gone there, a destination, over many years and vast distances, nine years, three billion miles, one's Kansas-bred bones flying right there, almost close enough to touch, over its fascinating rocky, icy, fissured and rucked up surface: it's as amazing having an ethereal vision, then actually arriving at a real place with an address. My bones shiver at the thought if yours don't, busy as they are going beyond.
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