Call me Sardine. That’s what I started to call myself after a revolution or two in this wretched tin can. Round and round about old Earth down there. The slow crawl of tiny lakes and seas and mountain ranges and cloud swathes has become my daily commute... Months in isolation. Years?
No man’s an island? Well, I guess the jury’s still out on that one for me. I’ve zero inclination of ever going back down again. The bickering, the compromises... I mean why would you ever hire a Chief Engineer if you’re not ready to—Yeah... I’m pretty sure they ain’t missing me either. Heh, not after what happened.
But the boredom is getting real. I read the books. Solved the sudokus. Nicknamed my buddies in nearby exile sats. Lined up the hydroponics equipment by height, color, oxygenation rate, pH sensor accuracy, hose girth... And who the hell am I even recording this ridiculous journal for? God! How long can I withstand this soul-wrenching, unbearable silen—