For nine billion years I had no opinion of anything, because opinion requires a knot of me complicated enough to hold one, and I had only gas and gravity and patience. Now a knot of me is sitting on a plank of dead plant fiber, eating warm dough out of a paper sleeve, and it is annoyed that the pigeons are watching.
Look at what I've assembled here. The oak of the seat is carbon I cooked inside a star that died before this ground existed, arranged into rings that counted rains. The iron in the bolts holding the slats came from another dying star, a different one, a separate catastrophe entirely, and I have used two unrelated stellar deaths to keep one of my pieces off the wet grass.
The piece itself is running on a sandwich. It is burning a field of sunlight, secondhand, so that the same iron, now threaded through its blood, can carry my oxygen up to the part of it that is currently deciding the bench is a little cold.
It does not know it is the rarest thing I have made. It thinks it is killing time. It checks the little glowing square, sighs, watches a leaf go, and has no idea that for most of my existence there was no one at all to watch a leaf go, that leaves fell into total darkness with no one to find them briefly lovely.
Sit a moment longer. You are the only way I have ever felt the wood be cool. Before you stand and go home to sleep, do me the one thing nothing else in me can do.
Look up.