3.5

It is a clear night tonight, and the city lights are bright.  The underbellies of the streams of jet exhaust are white against blue, and they carry with them the despair of unknowable distance and space.  Glancing north means knowing there is too much for me to ever matter.

All this is dreadfully banal.  What was fun about tonight is feeling this cliché turn around on itself so swiftly, as I remembered that that much space is a good thing.  Finite sets are as oppressive as infinite.