Black Holes draw in and elongate. They are something increasingly on the tips of the tongues of creative practitioners. I imagine this because these present us with our contemporary sublime. The awe inspiring sensation that has its roots in fear, rather than aesthetic pleasure. It is that soul consuming, edge of reason kind of stuff, where we don’t quite know where we are. The lost. Orphans of the storm if we hark back to King Lear, The Fool and the loyal Edgar outcast on the moor.
It is that revelatory exclamation ” Is man no more than this?” Outside the pomp and circumstance, or outside the realm of consumerism, here we are very little, arrogant beings conniving to place a graph upon the universe, measure it, quantify it, bag it. Impossible.
We are too miniscule to understand. Finding that we are miniscule can be a positive though. There is something rather comforting in the idea that we cannot possibly know everything.
I have seen ghosts.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.