Gravity/Infinity

I felt really happy. We passed through a small cloud. The cloud seen from inside like this, was gritty, liked spilled earth or dust flakes in a stairwell. Eventually the sun would set for ever — burn out, pop, extinguish — and the universe would run down like a Fisher Price toy whose spring has unwound to its very end. Then there’d be no more music, no more loops. Or maybe, before that, we’d just run out of fuel. For now, though, the clouds tilted and the weightlessness set in once more as we banked, turning, heading back, again.

Remainder by Tom McCarthy