Sometimes, in the endless void of space, I fancy myself a poet. I write stories and fables in whatever ink I find, on the paper I have remaining. Who knows how long I’ve been stuck here?
Other times, I paint. The stars never change, but one can dream. I’ve been running out of paint lately, but I’ll get by. The constellations- I paint them with hues of purple, pink, yellow, and red, plus splashes of abyssal black for the empty space.
I check the distress beacon. It’s still running, as it has been for... who knows how long? Darren had a watch. I should ask for the time.
So... I’ve been stuck here for three years now. Three years since the fuel ran out, three years since I cared. Food has been rationed quite a bit, but even so I’m running low on it, despite a convenient restock a while ago.
Sometimes, I fancy myself a writer. I write on the whitest stuff I can get, using whatever I can nowadays. I’ve been running out of everything.
I sometimes draw, but pigments are running low. Red is something I have quite a lot of, and I use it a bunch.
I check the distress beacon. It’s still running, and I doubt it’ll turn off. Who knows how long it’s been off? Darren had a watch. I should check his watch.
Three years now, three years in this endless void. Three years since the fuel ran out, three years since I cared. Food has to be rationed quite a bit, but I doubt I’ll run out of meat anytime soon.
Sometimes I fancy myself a poet. I write poems in red on the whitest patches of space, but I’m running out of those.
Other times, I paint. The stars never change, but sometimes I trick myself into thinking they do. I paint in reds, mostly, but I still have some black.
I won’t run out of red anytime soon. Or meat, for that matter.
