Planets are formed when particles of dust cling to one another in sufficient volume. Such a planet is called Burr, and we are its constituent particles. The universe is geared toward such ends, but there is also resistance from weak and strong forces alike, and this is even still presupposing an answer to whether there ought to be nothing, instead. In either direction, the odds are set high. Our coalescence was unlikely, however inevitable. There is no brute fact at the root of our existence. We are self-subsuming and unassuming; too close to be entangled, too far to lay claim to inexorable bonds. We are now a larger particle: a particle at large. We stick in the fur of passing animals. We are larger still. We are dismantlers and completists, architects and abysses, incipient late-stage atomists. But we are also characters who have grown self-aware. We choose not to move beyond idle chatter, but rather to take it seriously above all else. We opt not to be a program, or to write a manifesto, but to be manifest. We have formed a community from the raw stuff of the universe, a coterie, a copse, a commons. We are bound to a center of narrative gravity: Burr.