22. For Yuri

Tonight, a sea of alien fish approaches; on the beach I let the tide draw near. A lunar surface, here. An orbit without fear. A never-ending fall, ridden these last four billion years.

I'm given to gazing into that fathomless phantom well of Gagarin dreams; perspective as sustenance. A glance down unearths our whiteheat beginnings, mirrored deep beneath; inside great burning balls of light are new futures made, new thoughts and hopes. Our sky and our tectonics define us, our origin and destiny. It's hard to breathe up here.

There's no such thing as going home again. Not now.

21. Lunge

Quiet, isn't it?

A stickward-bound body; a frantically peaceful return to the darkest of black nightspace; time to gather energies for the light-polluted lunge of the future, like winding a spring.

There's too much history here.

Growth. Change. Other pleasant-sounding abstract notions.

Yes.