The dust of meteorites is an imperceptible veil of salvation in immolation found at the very edges of the warm, clinging atmosphere of Earth. By the grace of physics, pebbles become annihilated by speed and friction, bursting apart into so many dead seeds of alien constellations. Trapped in the gravity well long before they were drawn in by old Terra, they were never our doom.
Here: one no larger than the mote in a thinking God's eye. Shiva? Jehovah? No human will know for thousands of years, until what once was that species has passed long into the evolutionary night. This one is the last gasp of some other solar system, and no God, or future Man, will reconstruct whether life lived on any planet, any asteroid, any metal ship. The carbon record cannot say if this was once a cliff on which strange children played.
Wait. There, a filament almost, an unraveling of the loom that was the size of a football. No touchdown for this ball: it sailed gently inwards from the edge of heliopause, where it lived some millions of years before being lobbed at us. It never even made the midfield, in terms of potential extinction events.
But here's one more interesting, and this one almost made it. I say one. By the time the atmosphere catches all these trillions of extraterrestrial objects and renders them into component parts, they are just that... becoming many almost as soon as they enter. The loners become part of a community of dust, a never-ending database of geologic pilgrimage to the unsacred sphere that is our world. They will never be alone again.