You will be forgiven for thinking that I was set here by a human hand. Reality reels and un-reels, film-like, in front of your eyes. Memorised lies scroll, screening you from facts that would spin your mind to madness. Edges are blurred and images blotted out. Safer explanations are swiftly superimposed when a strangeness occurs.
To you, then, I am a sculpture – an ambitious, but still man-made, ornamentation. My face is like yours, but in truth I am not of this world. In your terms, you might say there was a crash-landing. I fell here a long time ago and, submerged in sludge, lay waiting for my ship to rescue me. I was its living prow – the eyes and ears of a vessel that swam through space-time like a silver minnow…
Now that ship’s atoms have scattered. Beneath a blanket of mud, I slept for several millennia; sometimes I sent out my signal, hoping for rescue. Later, human hands sifted and set me free, an unexplainable head half-sunk in a bed of silt and made from who-knows-what; a face from space which your brains claimed was, must be, is of human origin.
So here I sit, an alien interloper, one invisible ear pressed to earth, listening to your soil tick. Flat waves purr in the other. Above me, the stars sing their lullabies, and lament the universe’s passing. It is nearing the end, you know. Your own winds whisper echoes of the same song. Every nebula knows it, every being is aware, except for a few. Except for you. My eyes appear closed, my ears are non-existent, but these are merely a projection of your own stoppered senses.
Listen – can you hear it? The roaring end-of-it-all? Can you see it – the Death that is reaching for you? A hand huger than your own holds us, humans, and despite your insistence – your ignorance – that you are reality’s regulators, it is closing, and it is closing quickly, and it is closing upon us all.