Franksucks

The small things always matter. Even in the infinite expanse of space, men still find happiness in a smile, a joke, friends. In the mind-numbingly empty field that lies beyond our safe, cozy little solar system, people still hang onto pictures of home and trinkets, beliefs in spiritual entities, hope. Hope. Like wildfire, hope spread during the Golden Age. Unstoppable, powerful; nobody could stop the explorers and settlers. The skies, cluttered with ships, became highways. With bristling excitement, convoys of government, corporate and even private vessels dared to tread the stars, and there, in the silence of space, they found each other. They found comfort in song and friendliness, hope, peace. Russian colonies welcomed American travelers, African cities welcomed Asian spacemen, while European settlements brimmed with culture: the Italians, always eager to travel and bring their food, the Germans, quiet but so efficient, the French, boisterous but capable of turning a habitat into a

The stars shone like diamonds. They dotted the firmament, endless, pure. No worries, no fears, just courageous brightness. In the cold, deadly void of space, stars dared to burn, and burn, and burn, until, in their infinite stubbornness, they died, and tore the sky apart in magnificent shows of incredible, inconceivable power. Millions, billions of tiny spots in the night, staring back at the dazzled children and the thoughtful adults, offering their warmth to the ones who feel cold, their beauty, free and unrestrained, to the smiling faces of humans system-wide. Even now, with the fully realized holographic virtual reality technology that allows people to live entire lives within the confines of one room, there are still those that stare up into the endless night and wonder, hope, cry, dream. The poems and stories that ship pilots share certainly remind one of much more ancient tales: mermaids and pirates across the seven seas, the dangers and promises of sailing the oceans. Now