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"What are the roots that clutch?
What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?"
-- T S Eliot
“I’ll put these here now.”
… where do we go from here?
After the end of the quest, after the minutes when all was close to being lost, after the betrayal, the discovery and the voiced secret, the Nebuchadnezzar once more vibrated with energy. Electricity pumped and raced through the blood vessel like wired of the ship, much like before. The people, what remained of the crew, now paced the narrow spaces of the battered hovercraft, going out of their way to renew its efficiency, to save its life. They hadn’t managed to save the lives of their crewmates, who now lay motionless in what usually was Neo’s tiny room, door shut tightly, awaiting their final halt somewhere deep in the sewers. They’d never come back. But the Neb was alive, and in a way that assured the four silent, busy minds that indeed they were too. They spoke little, but their silence screamed; of grief, of paradoxical joy and excitement, of labour, of life. This energy, the one of physical labour, was one kind. But most of all, what imbued the ship was the misplaced silence between the two who had shared a kiss on the brink of death.
* 1 *
* 20 Years Ago - 1979 - Age 17 *
"Thomas!" the brown-eyed dark-haired mother yelled, "Thomas! Your breakfast is ready!"
Scraping the pans with her dull spatula, Michelle Anderson scooped the greasy bacon and sunny-side-up eggs from the pans, and tossed them onto the plastic lime-green plate. Flinging her towel onto the kitchen counter, she yelled even louder. "Thomas!"
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