FishsticksAndCustard

He is standing there, a lone figure under the bright, burnt orange sky. He looks up at it, looks around. He hesitates briefly, then takes off the sunglasses (the barrier, the armour), letting the familiar hues and shapes invade his vision. What could he scan, what could he use them here for, anyway? There’s nothing that he observes which is unknown. The small golden disk weighs heavily now, drags his hand to the dry, cracked ground –the ground once so beloved, so mourned for and so sacred– so he puts it in his coat pocket, bigger on the inside for the bigger on the inside. He doesn’t feel anything. “Home;