Naomi's asleep at her desk - groggily lifting her head with some effort. A light stretch, eyes barely open. Slow rhythmic raindrops falling outside. Tiny crescendos echoing in constant repetition across the horizon of small worlds - puddles like oceans to insect foot steps. Seems like the sky has been this gray for weeks. Static hisses against the sea of starry blue clouds. All noise, no more signal from that sky above. When she was younger and would look up to the sun she would feel as though she were enveloped by its radiant warmth and some cold internal pillar melted in its wake. Life outside the colonial cities in these scrapheaps wasn't quite what it used to be. There's a hole in the roof of her tin shack; she can't remember how it got there. Her belongings, stacks of paper - her memories, have become dank and mold stained at the mercy of the elements. Small weeds grow where her floor has worn away. She shivers in the cold, pulls her burgundy comforter tighter around her. It wasn't always this way - it wasn't always so cold.