Space
is prehistoric, now. It's one
long age, without any eras
of change, not since
it became transparent.
It's winners
write the history books,
and far as we can see
nobody's lost a thing up there
except for us, some junk.
The contest is ready
perhaps, to be begun.
If nobody else shows up,
we'll have to do everything ourselves.
As soon as we're done sorting out who's won
down here, of course. We've a couple of shelves
to fill, but winners
are scarce on the ground.
Perhaps we can hire some
from whoever is left at the end
of our next go-round.
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