.-. . -.-. . .. ...- .. -. --. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / -- . ... ... .- --. . / -. --- .-- .-.-.-

Nuntio accepto tuo.

Pilot: "Mission control, transmit coordinates, delta zero."
Mission control: "Delta zero, negative, landing zone unsafe, abort."
Pilot: "Failure to receive your message, mission control...say again...transmit coordinates."

All alone, lost alone in a space bowl,
got nobody to latch onto,
such awkward lies and consequences,
could this be the end?

So far away from home,
got nobody to latch onto,
my painstakingly bored heart,
canvassed with space art,
a bliss trip space hit.

Pilot: "Mission control, we have contact...dark side of the moon."
Mission control: "Roger that, standby for military assistance."

So little in the air,
as if the aliens don't really care,
who they hurt or who they beat,
every one so perfectly neat,
a mere iron machine cast aside from God,
wandered creatures of space damnation. 

Continuation of our lives,
finding what we would like to find inside,
failing to realise this prison of time,
is all there is, will ever be, is the end,
closing my eyes as I float onward,
control lost magnifique. 

"Welcome to the universe....."