When I was not alive, I would spend my exiled days in a smallish room of desolate proportions, perusing manuscripts of my contemporaries whilst suffering the contemptuous vagaries of weather through uneven panes of my prison; winters were fraught with sudden chills and during summers, an intolerable heat stewed up in the rafters until the very wooden beams groaned with sweat. It was not a completely abandoned existence, I was granted access to the window shutters and even short walking breaks in the yard below; my possessions included a diary, a diminutive green plant, musical devices that played back tunes of my century, various fabrics to clothe myself, and books amongst other inconsequential things; however, from my cell I observed the idyllic nature of my surroundings, beyond that an impenetrable fence, the lilac expanse, and knew what I desired most could never be accorded.
* * *
You dreamt of Laika and wake with envy, startled by the precision of this illusion, how the telemetry systems glowed in moonlight, bewitched, watching the earth slip away to a blue dot, the thrusters drop as if a piece of carpet fresh out of magic, the yawning boosters flare and stretch, hurtling you to white pinpricks of unimaginable hostility. It was jealous fear that woke you, that and the wetness around your bed, the yellow smell of warmth; your heart doubled and hard like a steel drum. You rise, gingerly off the mattress with a groan. Outside, it is only May, but the night feels like October, it makes you think of whippoorwills and a soul someone you once knew might have lost. You wonder if you still have your own. The darling breeze slips in, wind-chimes crying out faintly in the night, and then you look down, tugging at the corner of your damp sheets with a sigh.