Space is a cold place.

In a dishevelled room somewhere the serpent king bemoans the silence of the warm afternoon. 

The crows are angry at the falcon who never leaves leftovers of their hunt, they chase her, all of them, only to fly so high in the stratosphere that their wings freeze and they fall like bombs in an air raid. 

One day he will understand what these silent afternoons meant, now he is only  too young, mindful in the melancholy that expectations bring. He pulls up his buttons and turns a pillow, shuts out that daylight, turns his head over and remembers that he must wait till the night comes on. 

Space is a cold place full of possibilities. So am I.