Day 43. I went up to the control compartment again. I don't know why. The first signal I sent didn't even travel a tenth of the way. Another dry message: "Day 43. I'm still alive. Regenerating oxygen and water. Food supplies for 157 days. Awaiting instructions." Signed. I pressed "Enter," and my message flew off into nowhere again...
What instructions am I waiting for? What am I hoping for? A hundred and fifty days will pass, and no one will ever see my messages. It's too far away. Space is too vast for humans. Or humans are too small for space. I think about this as I float weightlessly in the middle of the central compartment. From somewhere below, Sinatra's voice breaks the deafening metallic silence. Or from above. Or from the right. It doesn't matter here. I assume the position of a fetus in its mother's womb. Like the space baby in Kubrick's "Odyssey," which I rewatched a couple of days ago. A space baby. Naive and romantic. Egocentric and smug. Who are we to space? Children? No... Just pieces of meat inside a metal can. Canned food that no one even has to eat.