New Riders on the Purple Sage
One last perfect afternoon to ride with the Boomer Boys, trailing vapor trails across the cerulean skies before tomorrow. For that is when we stop the world.
Boomer Boys, that’s what they call us. World stoppers. Planet killers. We are the ones who make the void of intergalactic space shake, vibrating to our crunching of planets for the raw materials required by the Grand Union.
The vanes are set, driven deep into the mantle of our latest conquest. The fins are set, bent into the shapes required by the mathematics of convergence, to maximize the gain of materials. We are ready.
But today we ride, playing tag from pole to pole, wilderness to wilderness, drinking deep of the beauty that will be transformed into the materials for our spacecraft, homes, vehicles. We will see the last sunset, the night alive with the stars in the bowl of heaven, sparkling, diamond cold, hard, yet igniting within our breast the wonder of beauty. And then, the last sunrise. Bright, incandescent, each photon tracking through the skies with a wondrous joy to bring a tear to the eye, an ache to the heart.
Ignition. The waves of confluence roil. Purple, violet, indigo. Materials roll into our hoppers, overwhelming us with the smell of sage, rosemary, and blueberries.
Finished, sated, our ships return to unload, only to start again.
For we are the Boomer Boys.