She orbits around him sometimes. He orbits around her at others. There are other satellites which move through the space. Broken bodies in the skies; shattered angels.
Is this era alive? Is this a fallow period where the dreams are not planted? Are there heads below, fathoms deep on coral pink pillows, blooming into anemone realities. The tide slides over it all, its form tattered in the action.
Some people wake as a latter day impersonation of a god with a live satellite feed preaches to the people below about the beauty of a life without gravity. People listen. David Bowie on in the background; an idea of how the world fell away when a star went cold in the heavens.
Houston, we are beset with problems. We were dreaming of a lone star, and it burned out. We forgot that we built our lives around the shine. Summertime has not come back. Winter reigns forever. We have forgotten the eleven years sunspot cycle and the interference that gave us some drama for the day.
Life is somewhere else – carried off by the people who escaped. How many stages burned up to launch the future? Generational arks flung out past familiarity towards dots on a astronomical chart. Praying to science; routine maintenance; faith in a system in which you are held in the suffocation of a life of contained breathing. Earth is forgetful and cold.