DEATH ON MARS
the astronaut silently follows the path of the beacon lights on the platform floor. Ahead of him, the beautiful and sinister steel dome floats, propelled by element 115. The dome's gates slide in pairs at the top of the retractable stairs, and as the hangar resounds with footsteps, the nave welcomes him gently. he's gone and knows those two satellites are deimos and phobos, but he can't find his boots, the helmet has cracks that expand nonstop and he forgets which buttons he should press. there is no god there to bless this spectacular death and about those hands that didn't wave goodbye, he didn't even make a point of remembering. today is one of those days when we're not ourselves, he thought, still seeing the ship plummeting to mars and about to shatter. days when we leave ourselves at home dreaming, or when we send ourselves ahead so that we can wait for us, he lamented, but it's time to give up, forget everything and myself, today is a day of not arriving.
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