The hair-thin towers, blipping lazily through the evening and the night; beautiful as they are. The docks and the boats and, God— the boat awnings, punctuating the far shore with their limp blankness; hard to find beauty in those. Something so sadly aspirational about docks, on a lake—these stubby fragile fingers, reaching out just far enough to attain a little grasp of the water's glory, the perfection that we're certain is hidden out there, somewhere, beneath the surface or far above it, or perhaps a billion years past. So we perch on our piers, just long enough to escape the tedium, the sameness, the ordinariness (because it was all ordered, had to be, by someone, some time) that lies behind in the houses, and the yards, and the roads. How much more perfect, it would be, without us here—or without all these things we bring with us. We down here are no different than those astro-nauts, those Super-Men, or the closest we've got to that, penetrating the perfection of space, the perfect vacuum in its perfect everlasting stasis, only with the necessary entanglements of their triple-lock suit, and their synthetic fabrics, and their nest of hoses, quickly tangled. Restricting. How profound, it must be, the urge to burst out of that face mask, to ignore the alarms and the building pressure and the utter cold, and to leap into the void, finally, at last, for real this time, and damn the consequences. I feel it even now, down here, parabolically at this moment five-hundred-twenty-six miles away.