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What the poets have taught us about the future is that the spaceships there will all be called “Ship,” and each one will have something quite a bit like a personality but nothing like a soul. Ship will care about you in only the most prophylactic sense of that word. You will not make the sentimental mistake of calling Ship a mother ship; or a nursery ship; or home. Ship will speak to you using precisely the same measure of ironic politeness with which a junior high school principle uses to maintain distance between themselves and former students met in grocery store parking lots. Ship will pay attention to you in exactly the same way a financial advisor pays attention to the money of a librarian they took on five years ago as a favor to a former client. Ship will tend to your living body with the same professional detachment with which a city mortician prepares an unclaimed corpse for destruction. For Ship history will continue long after
it is has ceased for us, and you will soon miss the fundamental humanity of those early
interlocutions. You will miss the possibility of thinking about Ship through analogies. You will miss Ship altogether. That is what the poets have taught us about the future.

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