There will be spaceships. There will be cures for every disease including hatred. We will knock the chips off our shoulders. We will realize, as the population of the galaxy reaches the hundred trillions, that we are no one special. We will realize that all of us are here to do something. Our job is to find out what that is. And all will be equal—plumbers, presidents, movie stars, ditchdiggers—and no one will want to just sit and waste time. Because life will be short again.
The cosmic palindrome will whittle us down to elderly fifty-year-olds. To creatures with life spans like pets on Earth in the twenty-first century—every moment with them treasured.
Yet, we will be mundane.
Yet, we will be no one special.
It will not be about who we think we are. It will be about what we do.
I will do great things.
You will do great things.
Most people can’t handle that.
Can you?