Two Thousand Nine Hundred
Written by Ian Aleksander Adams on January 15, 2012
Arranged by Rin Alexander Ascher on May 3, 2012
Published in Issue 001
Two thousand, nine hundred miles away a discarded peel sat lightly in its curbside berth, and the world around was generally comparable.
In its qualities the moon above, congealed through fog and broken plastic. Sifting into slightly acidic inner-space-space cultivated for repair. Space devoted, perhaps to detailing now, space occupied.
By young builders: space in the mission for the missionaries (or maybe just space.)
Taken by an off-dozen of aesthetics, or aesthetic gaffes, nice enough to take you in and let you step. A hole into their roof space there... enough to kill you! Space to be pulled out of in time, wondering if the space would have done the deed. "The Space" itself The Killer or the Ground.
Holding the space above well. The space is ancient history. Already no-space.
"In our future," you think, as you send love letters to nasa.
...and the girl you held through the crash wonders through Hollywood,
hoping to be a star.