I am made of the dust of stars, waiting on a lunar rockscape to be stirred by the breath of God: my time is not yet. It has always been possible. Even before now, when nothing was, everything was yet possible. With the cooling of nothing, the possible became probable, and I exploded into being in the same convulsion which made other possibilities unlikely, or inconceivable. I went, as did you, from virtual to absolute. Now, we are, but not yet. Dust of stars on lunar landscape, waiting unnoticed through cold eternities for the still, small whisper, the breath of God, to make us dance.