My hand hurts like hell. I spent all of last night with my index finger erect and moving. I had reclaimed an old tablet and begun to draw there.

When you draw, I think, your soul is lost in a subconscious state. You untie a rope around your waist, a rope that connects you to the chair underneath you and the cold floor at your feet. Like an astronaut, you float lazily away into a pool of darkness. It’s a soothing, surreal experience. Melodies whisper in your ear and bounce in your helmet. You’re in Heaven. You’re at peace. The catch is, you expect to be retrieved. You expect someone to loop the rope around your waist again, at some point. Otherwise, you’ll drift into the vastness of space, never to be recovered. You have faith that your crewmates won’t abandon you.

It’s late in the morning and I have yet to get dressed.

The rope is tight around me, squeezing. It sinks into the flesh of my belly. I feel the pull of the ship. I feel the weightless air break at my back. I hum a melody to drown out the sound. I hum and close my eyes and try to sleep as they drag me through the stars.

I want to sleep until the air is cooler and the surroundings are greener. I want to sleep until I smell the multi-colored powder and watch it explode on the surface of the Earth. I want to sleep for awhile. A long while.

Because I can’t keep my eyes open much longer.

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I appreciate all of you, even though you aren’t that many. Every person who reads my content has my eternal gratitude.

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