by johannespunkt

There are pills against homesickness now, he thinks, staring upwards at craters and pockmarks. The land where he grew up has been torn up by the roots and does not exist anymore. This deracination was there to stop the approaching forest fires from all around and yet the forest fires rage, with a clucking, cackling laughter in libraries, intent on deleting the past. The sky is unnervingly neutral about it and it hasn’t rained for a whole year and now the impending moon hovers close enough that he can step onto it and walk away. Maybe he will do that.