The numbskulls at McDonald's on 35th and Peoria elected to fly their flag at half-mast tonight. I immediately realized that I had not been near a news outlet all day, and would have missed anything having to do with the astronauts. Full-on panic mode ensued, with Loren (who was riding to and from the fireworks with me) treated to a precisely-enunciated, low-voiced rundown of my thoughts and feelings about endangering the lives of "my astronauts" and endangering "my space program" for a goddamn fucking political holiday stunt. She now knows how we sound when Dagger focuses Naomi's wishes. Dangerous, that, especially for those who have done wrong by one of mine.

I was marginally reassured when I got in and saw that the friendslist was business as usual, because surely someone would have been posting about disaster if there had been one. Then I saw a news feed article saying all was well.

I don't know what the folks at that store were mourning that they felt it was worthy of lowering the flag to half-mast, but it had better have been a good one.

Words are all I have to sing the dream of being weightless. This body was not meant for flight, for space, for liftoff's thrust and burn and crushing weight. Not meant for stomach falling into throat in orbit, where tears can fly in spinning crystal spheres. I shelter safely under ozone's blanket, not soaring high and scorching skin with bitter rays.

Would that I were there where words are weightless. Would that I were there where action and reaction dance close upon each other's heels. Would that I could see with my own eyes the way the world is round, a living marble wrapped with cloudy air.

Those that dare to fly have lived the dream of being weightless. Their bodies faced the thrust and burn and crushing weight. They danced with feet on stars, tiptoe among the spinning crystal spheres. They shall still soar, high above our scorched and bitter tears.

We lost the Columbia. It broke up on re-entry.

...I still want to go out there.