You finish milking the cow. Smelling like hay and thunderstorms, you head back in. The leftover pasta has gone cold. Cherry tomatoes on top, the kind that bursts, now stale. There are bottles on the table, uncapped and utterly un-arranged. You turn on something while you wait. The barn is made of aluminum alloy and the cow is 50% real. What milk, there hasn’t been since you left earth 14 years ago. You drown the silence in more extrait de parfum, let it fill the air with solid ground and ideas of a former heaven. It feels closer than ever but you're in the bubble eating ice cream.