ou’ve always liked pressing buttons.
You push your index finger into the question’s navel. It collapses with a satisfying sound of stone battling stone. You hear a language of pops, clicks, and groans as unseen apparati wakes and stretches after centuries of dormancy.
The ground vibrates and then shakes with abandon. The portion of floor upon which you stand rumbles up to the ceiling. The roof of the cave opens, allowing you glimpses of the stars. Suddenly, a globe of thick glass encircles the platform. Above the rattling you make out a descant of rocket engines clearing their steely throats. There is nothing you can do but look away as Pierce is roasted in the orange and purple blooms of its exhaust.
With one last gasp and shudder, the rocket is off. It hurtles through indigo skies and obsidian vacuums. You move impossibly fast, past planets familiar and bizarre. Starlight lengthens and streaks through your vision like raindrops down a windshield, lulling you to sleep.
With a jerk, in what must be the deepest of space, you slow to a crawl. In the virgin stillness you hear the undersounds of baby suns. You see atoms traipse their way across the universe in lazy sine waves. It is unspeakably tranquil here.
Above your glass dome, a constellation of stars, in the shape of a question mark, winks down at you. You never make it back to Earth, but the view is worth it.