floating in a tin can

jewsinspace
spaceodyssey

It’s nighttime. The stars are out, bright in the clear grey-blue sky and shining defiantly over the city’s harsh lights. Michael sits on his bed and looks at them through his open window, arms folded on the sill. The breeze ruffles his overgrown hair. He wants to climb out and go to space.

This isn’t his home. Where he was before wasn’t his home either. Up there, that’s where he should be. He tried to go there once but he couldn’t see it, couldn’t get high enough, and it was terrifying. He almost got lost. Morris told him never to do it again.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here: in this country, in this apartment, in this room. It seems like either ages or moments. It’s not like it matters, since he’s going to be here for the rest of his life, but it’s a weird feeling. The tenement seems empty, also; he can’t hear the small sounds of Morris’s existence through the door. Maybe he’s working late. Why can’t Michael remember?