The
sky was suddenly crowded with gigantic sparks and great luminous gas
clouds. The glitter of jam-packed stars,
some so large they seemed to be broken-off pieces of Earth’s moon, and the
shine of the clouds, awed them and made them feel pitifully microscopic and
ill-made.
Burton lay on his back on a pile of tree leaves and puffed on a
cigar. It was excellent, and in the
London of his day would have cost at least a shilling. He did not feel so minute and unworthy
now. The stars were inanimate matter,
and he was alive. No star could ever
know the delicious taste of an expensive cigar.
Nor could it know the ecstasy of holding a warm well-curved woman next
to it.
(from To Your
Scattered Bodies Go by Philip José Farmer)
.
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