Astrophysicists, as of this precise moment in time,
believe the universe is 92 billion light years wide.
Please don't ask me how they know, I can't tell you,
especially since the half-life of scientific knowledge,
these days, is only five years,
meaning that 50% of what Earth's wisest think is true
will be proven false by the year 2023.
OK. So maybe the universe isn't 92 billion light years wide,
or maybe there isn't just one universe.
Maybe there are many,
what's been called, the multiverse, for lack of a better name,
kind of like this poem if I

leave a space between verses,

or maybe the whole concept of distance
is completely old school, like penmanship or Ritz crackers
and, in reality, absolutely nothing exists
except this moment
of you reading these words
and me writing them
or, perhaps, as my father used to say
"that and $2.50 will get you on the subway."

The point of it all?
Love!
Love is the name of the game.
Love and kindness and compassion and forgiveness
and gratitude and, of course, consciousness,
speaking of which,
the most advanced space craft ever reverse engineered
from another world,
had no moving parts,
no dials, no dashboard, no grommets, no chips,
no nothing.
It was powered by consciousness alone,
the mind waves of the beings who traveled inside it.
And this, my friends, is precisely why I love baseball so much.
The shortstop doesn't give a shit about how wide the universe is.
And the center fielder,
he of the big biceps and rugged good looks,
has just hit a 468 foot home run into the upper deck,
thousands of ecstatic fans high-fiving each other forever.
Now that's far.

MitchDitkoff
My clients. Trippy, huh?
Baseball

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