From the radio we heard a professor at Stanford explain: there is too much cold & empty space for the presence of Life to be of much significance. In this enormously vast, (but small indeed), “visible universe”, biology has little to live on. This is what we know: It cannot in the stars, or in the cold clouds of dust & gas, in the "deep of space", or in all but the most impossible of watery planets. An intimation of other suitable worlds will not cure us of this loneliness.
The ledger of viable habitat does indeed look grim; atoms of the Alive, but a negligible rounding-off preceded by a dizzying array of a billion-billion ascendants who labor-long to numerically exhaust the ponderous, bio-phobic mattering; or at the vacuole end of the exponentiation, a kind of existential, ten-to-the-numbingly-small decimal that is our sequestering biology in all this indifferent, inanimate, & frigid barrenness. The fleeing dark & rapidly vanishing light of galaxies racing away to nowhere; this extinguished dust & ignited ash stretched to the crack of doom & just one young egg as proof!
There are those lionized, who in authority mean to leash us to an orthodoxy. They proclaim, Hear the TRUTH! There is no Aim to our Universe! Hold up the bright torch! Follow us or lose yourself to those whose fears enliven the dark we leave behind! Scholars so imperious in their poverty; so papal in their hackneyed ceremonies; so tiresome in their spells & incantations; their ignorance as great as their lack of humility; their base(ness) many powers of ten the attenuation of either charity or wisdom.
Even as we reluctantly endure the cult of the scientist, we bend a knee in adoration, worship the imperfect understanding & fierce, animal longing for the unseen at work: the intricate, fragile, minute revelations that are apiece the number of intimate coitions engendering aims of what this universe seems to gather about--- Love, a word for what will never be proved, though worlds "prove" its influence.
So, before this unique election of the animal brain that is in excess of science & by whose "society" we are at liberty to peer into the nascent manifold of Life, either as a particle shivering with cellular anticipation, or as the Ur-atom, whose strenuous inflation becomes the flooded cosmos of ceaseless churning & heaving—before this engorged mind we twice kneel in astonishment: no canon of absolute law or body of absolute knowledge, which may confirm or deny TRUTH will ever formalize 
our ways of understanding, exhaust inquiry, or end our determined speculation; no consummation of reason, no final analysis, nor our anxious inferences—the germ of chance discoveries, nor the Gödelian wonder of our voluble, rich with novelty & ever persistent ignorance, choke off the incomplete or make perfect the physic.
Inconceivable, the Truth (& its priesthood) that should silence the mind, seal the border land of dream, devastate every cultural crossing & terrorize, incarcerate, kill-off Imagination that religiously questions its Authority. To be alive is to spread the taint of creativity that will corrupt & bring ruin to any Truth of Completeness & to any Theory of Final Unification.
Why is this so? Imagine it as the primacy of Creation & Decay pushed by a desire to Learn. Finality as the last expectation of increase, yet belied by the newly pregnant; completeness gone to seed by the contingent, the impermanent & the remembered; the irrefutable rivering into an ocean of alternatives, mutations, eccentricities, eons & the energetic condensation of genius.
Imagine it as Truth, corrupted by life, as is biology for death, as are each, persuaded by thought & forced by love, to gather again. Death, the eager & porous boundary 
loose with a water invisible to all but thirsty particles; a water to quench vivid constituents of the intelligence that must create & decay in order to advance & withdraw so they may plenish, issue & endeavor the romance again. The persuasive energies of every erudite atomos, (no matter how small we "cut" it up), each as a potential companion to an idea or a galaxy.
In this, the question must be, is there any finality? A time & place where to learn is no longer possible?
Our companion, Alfred North Whitehead once wrote “Science can find no individual enjoyment in nature: Science can find no Aim in nature: Science can find no Creativity in nature”, but by the effort of our good friend, of you & me & those of the "cold waste" that anneal the solidarity of deep space—we have, we are, & we will.
The earth is dry. My roots are chafed & their caps withered, no longer squandering a tree’s time seeking increase. The panting air & eager sun desiccate my leafing. Scorched are the green speculations, played out from lifetimes of ring building. All those dead trees within, stiffen against heaven. 
