No Particular Night or Morning by Ray Bradbury

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Nothing on top, nothing on the bottom, and a lot of nothing in between, and me in the middle of the nothing.

There is no morning in space.

There isn't any season here; winter and summer are gone. So is spring, and autumn. It isn't any particular night or morning; it's space and space.

It would be soot and ashes.

It wasn't going places. It was being between.

The only way we can grow and get on in this world is to accept the fact we're not perfect and live accordingly.

Now, just now, this instant, while you're here with me, you’re alive. A moment ago you weren't anything.

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