Words lose their meaning. I have no faith in them, but in the shapes behind them, infinite fractal silhouettes, glowing neon silhouettes against ghost sky.
Astro-naughts. We have knight visions, night visors, sunglasses reducing the glare of a black sky and electric expanse to but a painting on the inside of your skull, a perfect Impressionist landscape from the other side of Proxima Centauri. The air is breathing for us, tastes like a frozen heartache on your tongue, crystalline nostalgia about being buried happily alive in blankets. We're all still too young in our eggs to realize how that heartache will warm us when we relent and let it melt.
Dot my tease. Crossed my eyes. It's my bedtime. Back to the incubator.
Man the observation deck in my leave.