Tiny.

     The ocean storms today.

    Each droplet struck the deck and windows like a step in a hastily performed dance. The pitter-patter of the porthole glass asking my attention to the vast ocean beyond. 

A hundred billion droplets caste in a rich blue, acting as the cover to a hundred billion more. All while upon this what we call an ocean, vast and beautiful, I sit writing.

    Barely a fraction of the world is visible to me on this ocean, which sits upon a single massive collection of rock and gas, hurtling through space around a continual explosive ball of light that heats this stone, which sits so far away it takes eight whole minutes for light itself to reach us, the fastest known thing ever measured by us, the species upon this planet, this incredible chanced stone. 

And here I am, on this boat upon this ocean held by this planet flying around this star.

    And not alone are we in this incredible space, as this star is within an incredible and beautiful universe full of so many stars we could never hope to count them, wrapped in spinning galaxies like the Milky Way, in which our star is tossed in circles. 

This star's pull taking along a little planet, which has upon itself many great oceans, one of which bears a thousand droplets that carry a miniscule boat, aboard which I sit considering the universe, how vast and imperceptible, and I, how small.