You are enclosed. All is black, cramped. You see, you know nothing. You are born. New light, shapes, colors blind you. You reject them— screaming, crying. You are swaddled. Differentiated colors spiral into fuzz a foot away. You care not for anything save food and sleep. You are young. You recognize cities and names, their stains and hues homogenous: paved roads, smiling people. You are adolescent. Countries take shape; shores erode to swerving waves, become individual. Somewhere, someone cries by a broken-down car on a dirt road. You are grown. You see the forest for the trees, landmasses for the countries, ocean for the seas— the world. You see the earth circle the sun, harmonious and even— comforting predictability in its neighborhood. You are old. You see the solar system fade into a galaxy into black tapestry. You breathe nebulas, bathe in chaos. You live on the edge of the universe.