The ship will come soon. Until then, there is only the running, another zone, a landscape of black shadows and the silver, glinting light from a distant moon to show the way. Thirst comes at intervals, but if I enter the ravines for water I could miss seeing. The ship will come, but only if the waiting is held, if the watching continues, if I circle this small planet again, and again. No dreams or sleep until then, nothing until then. Wait for it! Starlight. Streaking trails of nebula. How far? Light years.
Yet it will come again. It must.