“And I wonder, in my last moments, if the planet does not mind that we wound her surface or pillage her bounty, because she knows we silly warm things are not even a breath in her cosmos if life. We have grown and spread, and will rage and die.”
Reminds me of that interstellar poem: Do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
— Jun 15, 2026 07:55PM
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