"How diverse we are.
This species that lies on multicolored pallets of fabric under the stars.
All our woes, all our worries fade away into the unending illuminated black of the sky.
How easily it is to feel so miniscule under the Universe’s broadened eye.
Yet, we, as a species as a whole, still lay here, wandering, wondering.
We still lay here, thoughtful and pondering.
To no end is our imagination, our strange alien faces expressive.
Shock and awe, submissive.
In this moment, there is no war, no danger.
Just a growing acceptance that though we are strange, there still is, to us, stranger.
We speak in different tongues, we become indelible in the ways of offensive utterances,
But still we know that though we are strange, there still, to us, lies stranger, and this becomes sufferances.
We do not argue over the differential patterns of rain fall,
But we argue over the differential pattern of the way our proverbial feet fall.
We struggle, we strive, we are decietful, we lie,
But still, in this moment, where we are lain, do we truly think the stars care, that are lain in the black of the sky.”
-Minuscule by Julia Hough.