Maybe we should stop moving for a second and sit down here where the grass is soft like dawn and the mist touches us and doesn't like light-years. Look up: we are recipients of false-color images, of lights long gone. Every second, something vanishes out of reach. Come now, sit here by me. Let us recite the names of the nearest stars – Proxima Centauri, Lalande, Sirius, Luyten – the way we list the games of our childhood. You're so far away that I see you still. Imagine a farewell that takes a hundred years to reach you, disguising itself as brightness.