0.11.588
The rest of the crew has been rendered expendable.
Everything in autopilot now. I see a planet
in the Messier 31 galaxy; the coordinates indicate its dimensions.
But one cannot see from this observation panel the way out.
The ship’s motion produces light streaks.
Doppler.
The throttle.

0.11.589
This is space—not beautiful, not ugly—just a space.
Wind shear’s never a problem here, only radiation.
(Nice to tell Control what it already knows. Will sleep later.)
Just this morning, an alarm reveals the first signs of metal fatigue.
Comforting to know that the ship will outlive me.

0.11.590
Missed my wife. She has probably remarried.
An image is a simplification of dimensions,
and her face is never lost in the data stream.

0.11.591
#%%***#
—garbled transmission—
—message truncated—

0.11.592
I have caught up with time.
Reading Albert Goldbarth now.
I found the book inside one of the technician’s hatch.

0.11.593
Reviewing approach protocol
to bore myself to death. Easier to die that way.
I.V. needle up my arm to remind me
of the therapeutic properties of pain,
but not enough. Fever again.
No need to check my biostats.
Rescue won’t get here on time, anyway.
Just like in the movies.

0.11.594
…these doorways will soon disappear…
thread the strings that hold the universe;
the probability spaces intertwine
to expand the area where I can rest…

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