In Space there is a rot. In your mind you begin to decay, dismember, disintegrate. Your limbs feel absent at times. Your organs seem a mist. This is from the speeds at which we travel, maybe, or the synthetic air they circulate in the cabins. Is it magnetic pressure that is pulling you apart?
You do not look unwell, as you decay. Your skin stays supple, stretched tight like canvas across your muscles. They do not step their normal flexing. It is in your awareness that you crumble. Putrefied perceptions of color and sound, the way things feel when you lay your fingers on them, this is the rot. You feel as though you are an apple left to sit in the heat too long, and you perceive on your skin the presence of soggy dead spots of brown.
There is no love in festering, bubbling minds. Too much is focused on separating the physical from the dying mentality. There can be no affection that is not synthetic because there is no room for these things. Your mouth speaks cold words out of turn. People stay away, their absence, a catalyst; you begin to feel a twinge on the back of your skull.
Nobody ever dies from rotting. It is a process that occurs on the way to death, an unfortunate condition that will neither accelerate nor slow your descent to the grave. You live for however long you are destined, fettered by the pulsating magnetic waves ripping your brain away in damp, lifeless strips of matter. You wonder, weakly, using what is left of your capacity to question, if there is a reason man was born terrestrial. You want for sudden regression back to grassy plains where wind blows clouds across the sky, where there are no stars in the light of day. You are fatigued from the monotonous tumbling of stars outside the thick, smudged windows. Light breaking over the curvature of a planet can stain your eyes with white. The rotting tells you this, the rotting makes you see.