Down here, you can reach out for something other than a tether: a hand that you recognize. A hand that you've kissed. A hand that you've shaken. This is the nature of home. Something to hope for: the craning of your neck in ecstasies of passion. In passions, countless: among friends, among family. But here. At home. There are no distinctions between one and its other. --Something to hope for-- says Vaclav, to no one but the wind, or perhaps the moons. --Something to hope for-- he repeats, considering the silhouette of his hand against the orb of the larger moon, and the whisper of a breeze through his hair. He'll let it grow in the month he has here, in the month in which he can leave his apartment with friends (with Oleg) and an ax. A spacer needs the simplicity of primitive pleasures. Cutting wood. It is what you do when you've taken to the deep space on board the Lev. Swimming in the river. It is what you do when the rime of wood-cutting sweat slicks the hairs under your arms. But this is the time for simpler necessities. Climbing stairs to the first floor silence of his apartment...dialing a meal out of the compiler...drinking kvass with Oleg and speaking of the ships...the Mathematicians and the Blue Ones. Speaking of the missions to the only other one who understands. They share the same off-ship rotation, the same duties. Vaclav on board the Lev, and Oleg on the Tereshkov. And now, as Vaclav climbs the stairs, his ship-sack over one shoulder, he thinks of his room. He thinks of the smells, and the sounds of the floor underfoot when even the lightest steps draw creaks and groans from the parquet. He will shower. He will eat. And speak at length with Oleg over kvass, or stronger vodka. Kvass, or beer. Kvass, beer, or water. Yes...he will sit with a friend and drink. That is what he hopes for in these moments on the stairway's ascent. What he hopes for as he thumbs his apartment's lock and allows the system to read him. What he hopes for, as the door closes behind him, and the weight of his ship-sack slips from his shoulders. Only the apartment greets him. Oleg is not yet at home. **** This wasn't supposed to be a "Nemaean" post, but as you an see, it's turned into one. The original picture is actually of the Golden Sickle hostel here in Prague...it's my temporary (and very hectic) home. As always, thank you for viewing and reading and commenting, and I hope that everyone has had a Merry Christmas and will have a happy (and FUN) new year. (Also, I will be catching up on commenting a bit later...right now, things are incredibly hectic around here and I don't get the time I need to do much online.)