**Diary Entry- June 8, 2057**
*It's been eighteen years since I lost contact with mission control. Twenty since I woke alone out of cryosleep. Have I gone insane? I don't know; I don't fucking care anymore.
It doesn’t matter. This picture, the only picture, I have of my wife and daughter is worn almost beyond recognition. Man is not meant to be alone for this amount of time.
It’s funny, I can remember one of the questions that mousy NASA psychologist asked me when I volunteered for this mission.
He asked ‘how long could you survive on your own?’ Young, dumb and full of cum, I answered ‘forever’. I told him, I told them all I’d do anything for my country.*
*Maybe Earth is gone. Maybe they just forgot about me. I’ve given up hope on any kind of rescue mission.
But if anyone ever finds this message, know that there is nothing out here but blackness and pain. I don't think we were meant to take this journey.
I shouldn't have left my home, my planet, and the people I love. I'm going to finally open the airlock.*
MS Dobson opens the airlock and is blinded by a bright light. He stumbled and falls... down a flight of stairs. As he needlessly gasps for air, he struggles to his feet.
A man with a clipboard approaches him.