PRESSURE VESSEL

Is this the orbit we maintain? A slow, metallic spin refusing to dare uncharted planes. We exist simply to keep the pressure in. The scrubbers cough a weary sigh while gauge needles hold the line—a shared existence beneath a sky of strictly functional design, holding back the cosmic indifference.

A toolkit lies half-latched beside a fraying cord, flanked by replacement parts for systems strained and gored. The comms crackle with static bursts—no clear message, just a familiar thirst for atmosphere. From the brittle clay of dead lichen in the Observation Bay to deep microfractures in the hull, every cycle is a calibration against the inevitable.

Beyond this fragile wall, the vacuum waits as a silent test. Our existence is a quiet pact, unvoiced but confessed in the act of answering each mechanical call. This tin-can world holds all we trust. It is enough to counter cosmic rust and deep uncertainty. Enough, for now, simply to breathe.