Voyager

We've packed our bags, we're set to fly no one knows where, the maps won't do. We're crossing the ocean's nihilistic blue with an unborn infant's opal eye. It has the clarity of earth and sky seen from a spacecraft, once removed, as through an amniotic lens, that groove- lessness of space, the last star by. We have set out to live and die into the interstices of a new nowhere to be or be returning to (a little like an infant's airborne cry). We've set our sights on nothing left to lose and made of loss itself a lullaby.