I like to take guesses as to what the universe is.
Some days, I think of it as a shell, washed up on shore somewhere on an odd planet, safe beyond even the reaches of our imaginations.
Other days, I wonder if the universe isn’t held within a dewdrop pearling precariously at the edge of a leaf.
Perhaps the universe is a pair of well-worn boots hanging by someone’s door.
Or perhaps still, it is hanging between the pages of an unserialised tome, tucked between a paragraph and a dried wildflower in someone’s attic.
Would that be so strange? It’s an odd life, to be sure. Can it not be that the universe that contains all of us — all we’ve ever been, all we are, all we hope to be — is smaller than we thought? What if we are a world within another world?
What if nothing was as complicated at it seems?