By Salvatore Difalco
“Astronomy is for the birds,” I grumble, voicing old disappointments. “You learn nothing about life or reality studying stars.” They’re too far, too old to be of any use to my gooey mind. No matter how I squint my eyes, it all looks like a lit up nowhere. Meanwhile the precocious grandson—wearing a self-applied red-and-white polka dot bowtie of unknown provenance—has fused with a tube and froths about the nearby Red Planet, mighty Jupiter, and the mind-boggling multitudes of stars. Sadly, his passion is not contagious, but nowhere isn’t fairer or cooler than his happy little light show.
“(I write) for passion.” – the writer