floating in a tin can
I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of bluegreen leaves with its watery sun & three moons towards the cave where you must descend, towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and as you enter it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

- margaret atwood

June 2017

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October 30th, 2013


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[info]spaceodyssey

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[info]spaceodyssey

WE NEVER DID TOO MUCH TALKING ANYWAY


[info]jewsinspace
[info]spaceodyssey
January 28, 1969
It's freezing outside, the kind of bitter cold that dries out your nose hairs and makes it hard to keep your eyes open. Michael's teeth can barely even chatter. Most of him feels numb, unsure of what just happened and sick from adrenaline and shock. People pass by him in strange blurs, hurrying through the chill. How can they move so quickly at a time like this? How do they know where to go?

He stares at nothing for an undetermined amount of time, breathing foggy heat into the air, ears ringing.

Usually he starts to walk at times like this (although there has never been a time like this)—walk and walk, only stopping when he's exhausted himself—but it's too cold and his suitcase is too fragile and burdensome. He doesn't have a choice at the moment, he has to travel, but he has no destination.

Cabs go by over and over. It seems like the same cab. He should probably get in one, but he hates cabs. They seem unreachable anyway. Distant, out on the road. And where's the subway station? Shouldn't he know? Where's anything?

He starts walking.


Again, he doesn't know how long it's been, but Michael can no longer feel his face, or his hands, or his feet. His mind is blank, full of static. People give him strange looks that he doesn't notice.

Eventually he passes a payphone and looks at it. It brings an image to mind: the payphone in the hallway of the Chelsea, just outside Lee's room. The one she always calls him from.

Lee.

He goes into the booth, singleminded. Setting his suitcase down, Michael wrestles some change out of his pocket and fumbles around with the phone for a frustrating minute, attempting to dial a familiar number. Eventually the other end starts ringing, and he closes his eyes and stands still, the sound becoming his whole world.

“Hotel Chelsea,” someone grumpily says as they pick up.

“Lee. I need to talk to Lee. Lee Taylor,” Michael says, halfway to himself.

“Hold on,” and then the receiver thunks against something—maybe a desk—and Michael tries to hold on.