We have lost our way. There is no more hope. I am now alone on the ship. Everyone else has jumped.
I fear a storm is on its way. The winds have picked up- they blow hard against the acrylic sheets tied to the mast. The red sharpie skull and bones on our flag is holding up well in the rain, but it has only just begun. I can no longer see the sun: the skies are grey with oil paint and asbestos, and the ever-growing waves are warm, and they hum with the strain of a slow network.
I can no longer stay in the crow's nest. At nightfall I shall climb down and find shelter under the deck with the rum and panties. Wish me luck.
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