[01]
...they took her out of the sky, and put her down on a little bitty box. All the white walls, all the people about like ants. They wander about aimlessly, so very, very un-purposed and lost. All from a different place, each and every one. Little feathers floating random.
I see them. Each and every one.
She didn't want to come here, not at all, there were things to do, an albatross to find, the points of light in the black beckoning her on, but no, not the right time. It's never the right time - always being told walk, don't run, go here, do this, keep quiet, bricked up and stiff, dead and cauterized. Shh, keep the little boxes, save them, store them, up in the back of the ship, away from prying eyes. They are the memories, the hidden little atoms, swirling and dancing in our bodies, and they, they are secret.
She wants the sky again. She wants it back. She wants the little mechanic who could, wants to play with bouncing rubber balls and metal jacks. Wants her replicated blood in boy form, wants the metal grate under her feet and the hum of engines. Laughter and golden light at dinner. Even needles aren't too bad, the sleeping that comes from them - if only backwards steps would bring us there, day by day, little by little, we're just fragments and screens blanking out and blinking meaningless.
Only stars are her blanket, the velvet darkness, the vacuum of the outside - only an inch away from glass. Seat-belts off, we live that close to death, and it brings us peace.
Now, there is quiet. There are no whirling firefly lights.
Just her.
I see them. Each and every one.
She didn't want to come here, not at all, there were things to do, an albatross to find, the points of light in the black beckoning her on, but no, not the right time. It's never the right time - always being told walk, don't run, go here, do this, keep quiet, bricked up and stiff, dead and cauterized. Shh, keep the little boxes, save them, store them, up in the back of the ship, away from prying eyes. They are the memories, the hidden little atoms, swirling and dancing in our bodies, and they, they are secret.
She wants the sky again. She wants it back. She wants the little mechanic who could, wants to play with bouncing rubber balls and metal jacks. Wants her replicated blood in boy form, wants the metal grate under her feet and the hum of engines. Laughter and golden light at dinner. Even needles aren't too bad, the sleeping that comes from them - if only backwards steps would bring us there, day by day, little by little, we're just fragments and screens blanking out and blinking meaningless.
Only stars are her blanket, the velvet darkness, the vacuum of the outside - only an inch away from glass. Seat-belts off, we live that close to death, and it brings us peace.
Now, there is quiet. There are no whirling firefly lights.
Just her.