Little rackety wind went by. / Moon gone. Sky shut. Night had delved deep. Somewhere (he thought) beneath / this strip of sleeping pavement / the enormous solid globe is spinning on its way—pistons thumping, lava pouring / from shelf to shelf, / evidence and time lignifying into their traces.
— Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse
A reminder that beneath the layer of human activity the planet still does as it pleases—we are mere passengers, to be lignified in time.
Until then, let us find meaning in the passing scenery.
We are part of the passing scenery.