From Prime Station One, God Lord Bezos can see it all. Grinning, and cracking twelve-million-dollar knuckles, he gazes down upon his vast empire.

He reaches for a jeweled goblet of the finest privatized water, gripping it like an Amazon Essentials hand grenade, a 2039 bestseller. Bringing the expensive liquid to his lips, he drinks.

“Delicious.”

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Stranded, out in the cosmos, all I hear is static. White noise where there had once been chatter.

My face is itchy. I can see its reflection in my visor, superimposed over an ocean of stars.

Stars, planets, and my ship.

My ship. No more than twelve feet away. May as well be twelve miles out here.

I'm alone, but I don't feel it. Not yet. Just my face. I wish I could scratch it.

I wish I could feel the recycled air from the vent in my cabin. I wish I could hear its hum, the whir of the filtration system, the echoes in the corridors.

I just wish.

In an ocean of stars, you can wish forever. Until it takes you as its own.

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