You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension. A dimension of sound. A dimension of sight. A dimension of Mind. You are moving into a land of both shadow and substance; of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into Second Life. Your noblest efforts to stay sane are futile and ineffective, like the phlegmy flirtations of a dying whore, whispered seductively in the throaty contralto of a voice box.

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto. Domo Arigato.

Look to the sky. Look to the night. Amidst the darkness, stars shimmer with an oily twinkle, like particularly pernicious pimples on the forehead of the Father. The world turns. People arrive, live, and die. Starlight grows old and cold as it barrels through the universal void, until finally we glean the hoary gleam and reflect its brilliance in rime and rhyme.

The heavens are both near and far, hither and yon. Though the cosmos seem close when we lie in lovers' arms, our promises of stardust are as deceptively empty as a barren womb. We are but dingleberries, dangling unnoticed and unloved in the uncaring taint of celestial creation, and those events whose reverberations seem most profound are of no intergalactic importance. It is difficult to believe, but somewhere in the unfathomable expanse of space, someone neither knows nor cares of Anna Nicole Smith and her ravishingly rotting remains.

But despite our interstellar insignificance, or perhaps because of it, our narcissistic nature causes us to speculate about the stories of space. About star wars sagas and strangers in strange lands. And lest legends be lost, here I publish, for posterity perhaps, the tallest tale of them all: an alien invasion.

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