Dreams of Space Child.

When he was a child he had facial recognition surgery and they sent him up way too high with a knapsack full of tired ideas. The dishes were all dirty and his mother spent hours scouring the silver with a look of shock on her face. For there was her child blasting off into oblivion with teeth like razors. The moon spilled across the night like a glass of milk and still she cried; spilt milk be damned she couldn't get over this. Spatial trinkets floated about his withered little suit of clouds in zero gravity. He wakes up with the landlord wailing on his door. Sitting up in his soiled bed the detritus of his existence surrounds him like an interstate gut splatter. Where was his mother now? Had he ever returned from the empty vacuum of space? The answer is hard to come by when he reflects upon his life. He sweeps the kitchen floor and avoids the clock while the teapot reaches a boil. Ever so slight are his steps across the expanse of this rented room. As if each step was another statement in an argument defending the worth of his life. He looks through the skylight and has a panic attack remembering the look of the lonely planet we all live on through the space port as the rocket swept him far away.