Like Borges’ lone travelers through the eternal and vast Library, never nearing an edge or a center, the separate Voyagers drift further from what we know. Forty human years and counting, and all throughout, we were being born, suffered the pains of growing up, found first loves, paved the rock-strewn roads of our own journeys. Moving outward into the orbits of planets, they swung from one to the other and glided towards the edge of our solar system. What is there at the very end? No end at all. What could we know, if anything at all? Our signals scratch the surface. Icy Saturn came into view, its rings suddenly multiplying. The Voyagers made their exit, sailing surely through the fabric between worlds, beholden to the human race, vessels bearing the things for which, and because of which, we have survived.