I've seen the end of the world, and it's not with a bang or a whimper.
It's undersea habitats.
     There in a lovely empty ocean, we will swim unmolested for days on
end. Sea is a metaphor for mind -- our mind is finally clear, pleasant,
drifting on the peach current, sandy seabottom relations with only the
sunlight to guide us, and so: in our drip drop laboratories we will
slowly culture seeds for the next universe. This has happened many
before, from time immemorial. The moon is clocking us. When we get to a
certain checkpoint, the moon opens up and fires pods, papers us with
leaflets which describe the real truth of things. Moonfall, sheds
leaflets.
     Oops, they had viruses in them! The moon and its robotic genetic
designers, tarnished with the spidery rust of millions of years -- it's
nothing personal, it's nature, it's impersonal like nature. All the
idiotic leaflet readers are dead.
     Nine in ten.
     And so to the seafloor.
     I've been in a lovely empty ocean, releasing my own plasmates into
the gloom. In the gloom of a sad & empty room. the air of an empty room
congealed into ocean. the ocean is simply the old hardened atmosphere
of the sumerians and before. slowly rains over eons and collects in the
low places. We'll soon run out of low places. We'll soon run out of
buckets.

We'll soon run out of planets. All these planets are yours. We'll begin
to colonize boobs. All these boobies are yours. Except Europa. Attempt
no landings on hers.