Ode To Philip

Okay, this isn't an ode to Philip, but close enough. Imagine his ashes being blasted into space. Imagine Philip K. Dick from The Great Beyond feeling the tremor of ignition before he heard it. The launchpad vanished beneath him as the craft clawed its way into the sky, and Earth shrank to a blue whisper. He didn’t look back. He already knew he wouldn’t return. Nothing but ashes.

Inside the weightless hum of the cabin, time relaxed its grip. Minutes loosened into hours, then into something stranger — elastic, uncountable. Through the viewport, galaxies unfurled like impossible flowers, each one a radiant contradiction, alive and dying all at once. Philip's ashes drifted past them as though gliding along the spine of reality itself. He was inside a book.

He watched from above as dying stars collapsed into darkness and newborn nebulae blazed into being, their colours blooming across the void. Somewhere between those extremes — between the spark and the extinguishing — he sensed his own life mirrored back at him. Every memory, every fear, every strange vision he’d ever written about flickered in the cosmic dust.

The further he traveled, the less his body mattered. His ashes dissolved into motion, into thought, into the endlessness of it all. Galaxies spiraled beneath him like living circuitry. Planets whispered their histories as he passed. Time folded politely out of his way.

No one on Earth ever heard from him again. Out in the infinite dark, Philip K. Dick's ashes disappeared. Space stretches beyond sight or sound, a quiet infinity where even time forgets its name. In its velvet dark, stars bloom like distant promises, burning with patient, ancient light. The void transforms into an infinite silence and wonder, embodying timeless beauty.

Philip K. Dick