“No, it doesn’t.” Cecil frowns, a heavy sort of feeling gathering in his chest. Normally he tries not to let himself feel melancholy about this—he believes strongly in the present moment being the most important moment of all, the only moment there ever is, and much of his present moment is beautiful and important and full of love—but there is a persistent ache in him, as though some important organ has been torn away, and it takes energy to ignore.
“I know there are good things here. I know the people here in this community are good people, and I love sharing my voice with them. I love Carlos with all my heart, more than any words in any language in any world can say. But I… I miss my family and friends. I miss my old show. I miss everything about the desert: the heat, and the cold, and the quiet, and the changing sky, and the stars, and the darkness. And everything there was so alive. The air was alive. Words were alive. When you prayed, when you chanted, something would happen. This place is so empty and sometimes I just—”
He swallows hard and stops himself, covering his mouth with his hand.