End of an era.
Yet somehow Sizzler survives.
In a bid to maintain our astronaut’s sex appeal and prevent their skeletons from turning into soft milk cartons, scientists have meddled with the freedom our taxes give them,
and designed a space suit so American Apparel tight, that it squeezes the bones together safely bundled, to protect the romance that is sometimes lost in orbit – when a child finally grows up to become the Astronaut they always dreamt of being, before they understood their astronaut body would shrink, before they knew that brains partially dislodge and float slightly inside the skull hurtling through the debris of stars.
But doesn’t that just add to the romance before we lift off?
To help collect the math of time away from Earth they have scheduled sex experiments until Houston.
What can we learn from the benefits of sex without the stress of gravity?
Is it necessary to question how necessary it is?
When two astronauts challenge their own human scaffolding swaying together for the sake of Science and Research and Taxes in recycled air, they strap themselves to their bunks in helmet-less foreplay and eventually disconnect into weightlessness, and although it is hard to find that sacred groove, they are certain to make a break through.
If someone gets me pregnant in space does that make my child an alien?
She asked at launch.
We deteriorate into one another in a flash of light years through elastic mesh, to calculate the subtle bones’ groan crushing quiet beneath the mighty suck in the vacuum of space.
I say to her, looking through the window over her exhausted shoulder of science at the dime sized Earth spinning terra firma in cosmic weather’s molecule soup, “The world’s first researchers just searched, huh?”
(This is in response to THIS ARTICLE)
Welcome back forever, Endeavour!