"Dennis, can I just say one last thing about Mars? -
which may be strange coming from a Science-Fiction writer - But right now, you
and me here, put together entirely of atoms, sitting on this round rock with a
core of liquid iron, held down by this force that seems to trouble you, called
gravity, all the while spinning around the sun at 67,000 miles an hour and
whizzing through the milky way at 600,000 miles an hour in a universe that very
well may be chasing its own tail at the speed of light; And amidst all this
frantic activity, fully cognizant of our own eminent demise - which is our own
pretty way of saying we all know we're gonna die - We reach out to one another.
Sometimes for the sake of vanity, sometimes for reasons you're not old enough
to understand yet, but a lot of the time we just reach out and expect nothing
in return.
Isn't that strange?
Isn't that weird?
Isn't that weird enough?
The heck do ya need to be from Mars for?"
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