I have no right to write about this space, no write is quite right in space. Indefinable, it’s colors and inherent beauty, innate and foreign to what sense of familiar that I am so removed from; held back by a barrier of language that I keep butting my head into, record speed breaking fire and falling from. Bombing, that is. Based on the gravitational pull and position the only space that belongs to me now is a boiling inner terrain of confusion, passion, laziness, restlessness, this sense of wandering – to find a home? No. I have already left several homes, and more love than I can possibly measure. Why. Why do astronauts test their physical limits in order to shoulder the unbearable silence of space? For the search, inquiry. A quest for truth – of the soul. Stealing what knowledge that might tip a balance for fact; but we started in debt. A marauder, to venture and seek what we can, take what we will. But how rarely we are capable of thrifting what we really seek – happiness; an elusive jewel I’ve but glimpsed for such brief moments that I’m unsure they were real at all. A fisherman’s tale – yeah, I’ve had it, I say, nobody was around but I reeled that fucker in and stared it right in it’s beady little eyes and gleaming teeth, gave it a kiss on its thick sticky lips. Then it wiggled back out of my grip and I’ve been searching the seas ever since. Went as far as Europa and back. Caught a glimpse of its metallic scaled sheen as I dipped around Jupiter in the last week of November. Off course, alone and storn in what direction nobody knows in space because there is no east or west or north or south, I guess you’ve pretty much only got forward. That must be why the universe is expanding. I can feel it pressing outwards. From my navel. It pulls me further. And I always follow because – because what if I find myself swimming in a pool of carbon on a planet orbiting Altinak and that fucking fish surfaces its shining whiskered face again? I’ve gotta check, at least.