[New York is a distant memory; it's a recent memory; it's something, closer to Stephen now, probably, than it is to Jim. He watches it come to life with rapt attention, leaning forward, food, beer, grill all forgotten. It's a life, it's home, it's pure nostalgia, he supposes.
He misses home every day, but he misses it terribly now. He misses his own cabin, he misses a door three inches open, he misses putting on his uniform every day, misses sliding up to Joyce while she worked. He misses his daughter, Eggos in the morning, coffee and orange juice, the arguments, the laughter.
He's smiling. ] It seems tidy. [Non-violent. He blinks away from it, gives Stephen the smile instead. ] Back home - the portals are tears. I guess that's the best to describe them. Wounds. Invasive.
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He misses home every day, but he misses it terribly now. He misses his own cabin, he misses a door three inches open, he misses putting on his uniform every day, misses sliding up to Joyce while she worked. He misses his daughter, Eggos in the morning, coffee and orange juice, the arguments, the laughter.
He's smiling. ] It seems tidy. [Non-violent. He blinks away from it, gives Stephen the smile instead. ] Back home - the portals are tears. I guess that's the best to describe them. Wounds. Invasive.