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Goto's
News and Opinion
Monday, June 14, 2004Phoebe
Spinning in the cold, black void. Bruised and battered by the passing flotsam and jetsam of space. Pounded and pummeled. Pockmarked and cratered. Illuminated by the sun. The face of Phoebe is beamed back by a lone passing observer.
When the crust explodes from an impact and dust flies skyward into the perpetual night, when boulders are thrown over the gray horizons, there is no one there to hear.
But it happens anyway.
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