suddenly i am back in this space of the three and a half years ago, and i remember the hands of this man, the way they stand still and fly, the way they are solid. they are burnt now, and there are scabs on them and scars anew, but the crooked turn of his eye is the same and i smile at it. i sit in the front seat, leg up on the dashboard, my arm a crook for my knee. my hand is out the window, it is catching all of the wind that would want to be caught, it is pushing against the force of this space, the fresh taste of it. and i sleep in a great big bed with the blinds pulled back open, and i look out with the rising sun and there is a man there, he waves at me. he is going to work. last night, i step down off this flying thing, and onto a back porch. there is a lake there. we sip beer, watch the lights of a factory straighten the water, talk about these people i used to know, these faces that have changed and have not. the running bump of time. and in the morning again he laughs at the way i say no. and in the leaving of that homeland i laugh that this is the place i have come to. this similar place, so different.