Was it only a few days or a week since the guidance system failed, forcing me to crash on this silent planet? The constant dusk of this place makes it hard to preserve any sense of time. I've slept off and on. Is that a sign of time or trauma? The Wormhole that brought me here is a distant memory now and the ship's clock failed as it was hurled through a vortex that turned every system into a non-functional mirror image of itself. Since the crash, the emergency beacon has been as silent as the air around me, yet somewhere inside its small black box, I can feel it hum. All the ships systems seem locked in silent dialog with themselves. My only companions are a group of ancient stone heads that I'd hoped from the air might be an island. Beyond them lies an endless plane of shallow water. The water, if that is what it is, stretches clear and dead, merging almost seamlessly with the horizon in every direction. The sand of its dense bluish bottom swallows every shuffle of my feet. It is a perfect match for the still, windless air. Nothing moves. Nothing appears to live. I have a strange absence of hunger and thirst here. Perhaps, like the ship's instruments, there are parts of me that fail to speak except to themselves. Like my thoughts, everything echoes only on the inside, speaking one word over and over