|
Memory cries out from somewhere far behind us, a thin voice lost in the engine's roar as we speed away. In an hour we'll forget the warning. Tomorrow, the voice. Acceleration starts to feel like gravity. And the motor -- -- just the rushing of wind over the open sea, fading to a murmur here on the shore where we contemplate evening's first few stars (distances, trajectories), idly planning our next engine.
-- January 2003
|
