With our eyes we might see an age pass, unnoticed by time's vast flow. In terms of enormity our souls are diminutive, the ages we pass know us only by the touch of our feathered glances. That which we cannot see does not know of our presence and thus, does not exist.
We proliferate in an expanding field of sound and light and heat, held together by the finest strands of nothing much. Paling to insignificance in the face of cold nothingness.
The minuscule remember the Great. We think on them and look on them, forcing them begrudgingly into formality. But the Great have no knowledge of our small dent on existence; they cannot feel out feathered glances.
The heat of a single heart might make it's way to the very end of existence and return, but find nothing. Thus is the nature of an uncaring universe.
This place, where we were unwittingly born, holds no care for us. Perhaps for good reason, as our lives begin and end in the span of less that a cosmic second, small beads of Known in the Unknown. However, we choose to spite the empty, to shine invisible in the dark.