"Who as a child did not lie in bed filled with a slowly mounting terror while sinking into the idea of a universe that goes on and on, for ever and ever?"

—Rudy Rucker
    Infinity and the Mind

So the universe is infinite in every direction — and the moments unfurl
ever-before and ever-after.
Would you prefer a universe with an end?
Say, a universe the size of an Elizabethan stage?
Where the story has a beginning, middle and end — predictability and order.

Would you prefer a universe
the size of a sequestered English garden
— finely manicured and assiduously detailed;
perfectly tamed.

Would you prefer a universe
the size of a shoebox
— filled with old baseball cards, jacks, and love letters
neatly shelved and catalogued.

Would you prefer a universe the shape of your mother's breast,
or the curl of your lover's body?
Would you like the universe in the palm of your hand, or inscribed in a ring on your finger?

Or, would you have the universe as tiny
as a grain of salt
which is bitter
for a second —
and then swallowed.