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We are slaves to the sun.
Slow arpeggiated waltz of Hohmann transfer
glissando curves in the hellfreezing dark.
The dance of low energy
the ballet of efficiency.

Our hope lies ahead
a cellar in the sky
where the darkness is warm and moist
empty road shut out by lock
slow death denied by slow decay.

There lies the feathered progeny of years
sown there by our forefathers
to follow their own path about the father
inside one more mote.

But inside, ah, inside-
Gyromitra esculenta in fields of delta-v salvation.
A mushroom, mycotoxic, lethal, low LD50 and high specific impulse
Did you know
mushrooms make MMH? Some do
and if you gather enough of them, O traveler
basket in gloved hand

they will grant you their secret hoarded sunlight
enough, perhaps
to feed the torchlight
and bring you home. But
without respect, without patience
They will overrun you
and their hoarded starstuff
will sublime away your very flesh and bone
leaving nothing for cool sweet Earth to find
but dust.