If we looked at the present, we could see the past. We could see how it all started. The first miracle, the first instant. The brief rumor of the stories and the brilliance of the oldest constellations. And yet, we couldn't touch the past.
Because there was space, the terrible distance. We could not drink the light we were seeing coming.
Because the past was just an image, the slow fire of a memory.
Until love came and brought down the distances. And for the first time, we could touch the body of a star, taste its intact light. A light that, 125 years ago, illuminated a place as inexhaustible as time, as secret as will itself, as persistent as fate.
Because time is a continuous home. Because time is a wine that ages in secret to be reborn immediately in the mouth of the discoverer.