Your earth is almost my everything. Cooled ash. It does not wait, does not breathe, does not give birth. It simply lies there, pressing down like a fatigue that never passes—it seems, all my thirty-something years. The sky above your roof—it does not press down, but neither does it console. It simply exists, like a reminder that the world is not black and white, that somewhere in it there is hope. The horizon is almost alive, but so thin that it seems it might tear at any moment—and I am afraid that there is no hope there, or that it will not bear the weight. It is as if you wanted to return. Or perhaps I am imagining it, because through you I can see the same gray field, as if you are not there, as if I am seeing only your shadow, left behind after you ascended into the sky. Perhaps you returned as something else. Symmetrically, mechanically, like soldiers on guard—someone is watching, but not you. They are accompanying you. But where? You are inscribed into their rhythm, even if you do not wish it. You must be. They are like a reminder that the path home will always be restricted. Someone left and is afraid to return to you. And someone else was erased by time. Nothingness does not hold the boundary—it only marks where it once stood. It has become a grating that no one climbs over anymore, because there is nowhere to climb to. The systems of protection have ceased to function. They have become scenery. Just like you, home—you may be in place, but you are no longer a home. #5