2034. Memento mori. Thought that would sink in, this far out. That black, undeniable emptiness of it all. Damn, he would have none of it. Raving about eternal life after Assumption, whatever that meant. Then he left dock. Just walked right out into the interstellar, left the dock wide open. What a Marmaduke. Left a note in his satchel inside his locker, along with a photograph of Helen.
When you’ve found me, you will think it was the end of me, but it will have been only the end of my beginning. Farewell.
2167. Something sir. Cast. Exoskeleton, maybe. White.