Читать книгу Orrery - Donna Kane - Страница 15

The man who throws his coat over a chair believes in his future. Should I tell him to hang it up so if he trips on the stairs, belief doesn’t turn to despair?

Is that what I believe?

That every belief is a fear of its opposite, that the man who trusts he will go back outside is afraid he won’t, and I, who believe in nothing,

am in fact worried I’ll miss every updraft to rapture as surely as acceleration times mass equals thrust? And that would be true. I would not

want to be without kin: Pioneer 10 aimed toward absolute zero, communication lost on the first summery day of the year when we were lighting

the barbecue, drinking Chablis, listening to Ella Fitzgerald, her silvery voice drifting from an open window to where we lay on the grass looking up at a sealed-in sky.