I’m going a little that way. These fragmented steps hinting at my eventual lurching. Probable journey. Quantum journey. These fragmented words hinting at my pentimentos, and then my reformasi period.

Perhaps serpentine. Perhaps surgical. I keep imagining a lithe body, a vector of beauty, a beckoning star. Another point to trace this constellation out on.

Firmament which means heaven, but I’ve misplaced it, defined it as sky. Maybe heaven really is here on earth. Maybe then, still, I won’t make it, not because of my sins but because I’m tired of immigrating.

Tired of the air-pressure of a country, of any country, the way it swelters on my back and gathers tight my haunches. Infiltrates into the bones. Is this how you define a nation then? Am I shaking with it? Is something shuddering?