Cruising from one part of the planet to another, far removed from the nearest trace of civilisation. Just another day on the road.

In the cavernous holds of our Boeing 747, we’re carrying over 100,000 kg (220,000 lbs) of cargo: six horses, four cars, oil-drilling equipment, two aircraft engines, and all kinds of sealed containers filled with commercial goods—clothing, electronics, and more.

While managing our navigation progress and correcting a complicated fuel imbalance between various wing tanks, I glance up through the heated windshield—into the world beyond, and the universe even further beyond.

The waxing moon offers more than enough light to illuminate the solid layer of clouds below, adding depth and contrast to the aerial landscape ahead. Off to the right, a lingering hint of aurora borealis glows on the horizon—faint, yet still visible through the bright lunar haze.

And above it all: the abyss. A seemingly two-dimensional canvas of stars and darkness, though I know I’m looking at a three—no, four-dimensional view into just a small corner of our Milky Way. Light that travelled thousands, sometimes millions of years to reach me. A humbling thought.

Every pinpoint of light holds countless worlds. Trillions of stars, nebulae—each dot representing entire solar systems with planets, moons, and maybe unimaginable stories to tell.

I imagine a solitary interstellar cargo pilot somewhere out there, hauling a shipment of element 115 or 20 million tons of raw ore, gazing from his silent cockpit during a routine check on his 300-year voyage. A view offering new constellations each time he wakes up from hibernation.

And in his window, our sun would be just another speck of light. A hidden corner of the universe where molecules sparked to life, where consciousness took form, where the cosmos observed itself through the eyes of a human being.