Have you seen the dust of creation? The thunderous exhales from the mouths of nebulae; grievous machinations of molecular clouds; smattering dark matter oozing into the corners of ubiquity? Of course you have not. Though, I have.
Do you know what awaits man? Nothing. Nothing awaits you. In a future counted in ages and aeons which surpass your reckoning, stars will be born and will die. Galaxies will collide. The fabric of ever-and-all will stretch until matter becomes naught but liquored threads, stumbling hand over fist as the vacuum of space reclaims itself. And you- man and all who are like you- with your ample guts and slovenly mouths, will be no more and no less than you are at this very moment, on this grain of sand you uphold as a hallowed Zion for a chosen race.
You are one of trillions before you. You will be one of trillions ahead. Now is all that is within you, all that your outstretched arms can plunder, all the fury of your voice can command. Should your heart fancy a thing in the stellar breath that is now, I beseech you, do take it; for now is all you have.
* (This is an excerpt from my first foray into speculative fiction. Which is a cool way of saying Sci-Fi. Oh, who am I kidding. It's utter geekness to the max.)
Trifecta Week Forty-Three- ample:
3: buxom, portly <an ample figure>