I want to be a space cloud getaway. I need a ship that shoots
for stars. Destination one-way: a milkyway holiday.
And when I disembark by jet-powered seat explosion I will
turn to dust and live, scattered, swimming, in perpetual
motion of star residue. Perhaps my eyes will survive and stay
whole, so I can see all parts of me glimmer as they float in this
airless ocean. I can breathe here though, because with bursting
every particle of me will ooze out all emotion [it’s mere somesthesia here]