{<div class='head'><img style='width:40%;padding:10px; margin-left: auto;
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' src='title.png'><br>A eulogy in honour of growing skies and shrinking possibility<br> by Cynan-Juniper Orton<br><br><img <img style=' margin-left: auto;
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<p>I clutch my cane atop the cresting hill. Inhale fog, dew, and cloud. I gaze at countless sublime peaks and sigh in awe. Skin fades. Edges blur. I am lost in horizons bigger than we ever imagined.</p>\
<p>The biggest there's ever been that'll never be as big again.</p>\
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<p>I watch them graze on a sheet of grass. Grass that’s less than wafer thin, less than paper or plastic film. Lacking in all depth bar the occasional jaunty angle. </p>
<p>On the horizon I can see flowers. Flecks sprouting up from the terminal ground. Beyond it is nothing. A black and starless void. </p>
<p>The cows, indifferent, cross between. </p>
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<p>What more could be out there, beyond this diminished point of view? </p>
<p>How much must I not know if the edges of my sight are dwarfed by the fence of a field? </p><br><br>
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<p>They point the camera at a mountain and tell me I can climb it. I tick off plants, birds, and other collectibles in a cold glow of achievement. </p>
<p>I plan my next hike with a satellite precision. Selecting my next view like a car checking streets. Making sure that the vantage has the vastness necessary to lose myself utterly. </p>
<p>Looking hard for the seams in the sky I find no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end. </p>
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<p>These worlds never used to feel so small. </p>
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