But we are crammed in here. I point to the clouds. My eyes follow the roads, searching for towns, a house, someplace where they go. There is so much space, so much room in between. Lonely houses stand on hills.
Nothing can grow here.
We may as well be flying over the moon. As I left the East Coast, my brother pressed a book into my hands. A longtime science fiction buff, he wanted to convince me that I cannot teach literature, or writing for that matter, if I am not familiar with this remarkable genre. We've got to look at what we have here and how different it is. It's Martian weather.