Chittering. Control and chittering both start with a C and they are both the same now in the cold echo of techno-separation from space. They say that in the first trip outside our atmosphere (the real one the one before Gagarin), there were no windows. There was only this infernal rattle and this deathly soundless sound of cold horror.
Control is saying something to me.
I am worried that it is something terribly important. I am worried it is something I need to hear, lest I die of something natural and I don’t want to die just yet although if I were to, I am sure it will feel just like. I feel like I am on the cusp of a cosmic orgasm. I feel like the Oddity is milking me.
When I was more sentient than I am now, I had put on my suit so that when I am shot out of my rattling tomb, I can prolong my (1) for just slightly longer. I am grateful now, but not for the same reason.
I wonder if the Oddity wants me to feel this. I wonder if the oddity is lulling my to my own death. I wonder if the Oddity cares. I wonder if the Oddity is permitting my thought about thought, my philosophising.
I wonder what life is post-Oddity. I wonder if the Oddity absorbs my (0) into an ultimate cosmic nothingness or if that (0) is precisely that. A not-(1). A nothingness.
I wonder why I don’t care.
I choose to spend my last moments describing the Oddity. The Oddity is a space-kraken. An aether-spider. Its cool limbs protrude, it’s chitin judders, breathing in vacuum and me. It’s tentacles stroke my cocoon, caressing and uncaressing. Perhaps that is how it tells me what to feel.
The Oddity is the catalyst to my metamorphosis or perhaps my antimorphosis. My transformation to unformation. My becoming an unbeing.
The Oddity is…oh. There. Right there.
I can hear Control now. “Squirrel! Squirrel, we can’t read anything! You’re on your own.”
“Oh, shut up, Houston,” I squirm.