The moons watch me from above, peering through half opened eyes. It's a strange sense of home, like this is where I belong – the middle of nowhere. But nowhere is nowhere. You are always somewhere. It might not be any place recognised by anyone, but it is still here. There is a hill, there is vegetation, and I'm sure there are little things wriggling beneath nowhere's crust. These are my neighbours. I can feel each and every one of them around me. They talk their own languages. They play their own games. Even the moons, watching idly, speak to each other.
It is like being in a strange city. You cannot understand the words, but you still understand the people. You don't understand their customs, but you watch on in interest and gain some of what they seek. But unlike a strange city, my neighbours know how to take assistance from each other without imposing. City people want, and they want anything but you in their presence. City people rush and city people stress. Even if they don't speak it, they say it, and people hear it. People feel it, and it infects them. My neighbours don't know of such stress, or even a need or it. You feel them saying it. It infects you. You become infected with calm and infected with curiosity and infected with acceptance.
I like nowhere. Amongst all of the unintelligible languages and customs, I find what I want to hear. Amongst everyone I do not know, I feel safe. I make my home nowhere, the middle of.
