To The Edge of The World (fifth letter)

You’re at the crest of our formation, this thing we’ve called our planet, our lives as we know them. We’re speeding through space. We’re spinning beyond all sensory detection. That’s what I dreamt of before waking this morning.
The sun is out and you’re nowhere to be seen. It’s a matter of belief. You can seem more abstract than the international date line or a world financial crisis.
You’re far too real and gone for anyone to ever simulate. Some try and fail. They go on vacation and pretend. You remain a tawdry ideal, a rumour perhaps…
I think you were everywhere once. Our first ancestors must have been there with you. You moved through the unknown with them in a rush of feeling that could only end in lonely deaths — a passing of silence — the advent of language and delusions, the idea of progress and its eclipse, the reign of economically determined pragmatisms. The rest of us have always been dead-beat descendants.
You were waiting between the first singularity and void.  You’re always eluding the production of desire.
This planet can’t claim you (as much as I’d like to think you’re an intrinsic part of it). It’s no wonder the universe is expanding. Everything seeks you out, demands a fringe, a line to be continually redrawn, a new border crossing.
I think you’re waiting us out. I’ve written to you about this before but I don’t know where to send the letters.