Outlook That shimmering slice of glass, precision cut to the micrometer, undefinable ridges and curls inserted onto it's gleaming structure, across which not one speck of blinding sunlight could reflect. Across which, not one smidgen of greasy fingertip-induced remains could be implanted, merely for fear of the deafening pain, which would rush through your fingertips. Ignoring the oozing purple cosmos ahead, from which, dazzling flecks of light emerge, and bond in gracious matrimony to form quilted pillows of optical delight, a spectical to behold. Though it must be stated, for all the grandiosity of the spacial glories, barely the blink of an eye could be spent spectating their flamboyant displays, for the switches and dusty dials, reporting for duty must be tended to first. Never roughly though, but with the elegance and dainty precision with which you'd grip a infantile daisy. For one gram too decisively and you'd be sent outwards, spiralling with no remaining hope, severed lever in hand into the depths of the cavity through which asteroids entered and never returned.