we are on a world where there is a perpetual air of new-morning freshness among the seas of steel, and three suns in orbit to ensure that the sky is ever light.

we open the porthole blinds to let in the streams. our faces are caught in gentle brightness, glowing, shimmering. we blink out the cutting kinks in the light and you pull on a shirt. the speakers play affectionately crackly piano music from an unregulated radio frequency. it makes us think of home.

sentimentality dictates that we spend the day housekeeping. no such term exists in our context, but ‘housekeeping’ sounds to me more welcoming than ‘ship maintenance’. you are laconic in your usual weary, quiet-smiling assent as you strap the toolbelt around your waist. at the airlock we survey an artificial arcadia, breathing in pipe-dewy, refinery-refined air.

in that moment, we emerge in the rusty lucency of a metallic frontier sunrise; we are insignificant and transient at the vague northern edge of an eternal galaxy, and infinite as two people in our own singular universe.

Cameron Kin, at twenty-one years of age, still doesn't know what she wants. Like members of many other subdivisions of the great tree of life she enjoys fresh air, rainstorms in progress and ribena. she likes making people feel funny - usually good funny, but bad funny is often also serviceable. to this end she has made attempts at writing, drawing, music-making and photography, because she cannot dance to save her life. http://ioncelovedagirl.tumblr.com