This space suit is sorry.
He'd like to offer excuses.
He'd like to draw your attention to the fact that the spaceship is filled with mirrors.
The mirrors are so perfectly fitted that the interior presents a false sense of itself. It gleams and enamors and enlarges. That's why it happened.
And, when the space suit was so sick with the constant sight of itself that the vomit spread across the inside of its helmet
it closed its eyes and swayed to the stomach turning lurch of the mirror lined capsule
And groaned under the weight of the acceleration
And listened to the lies that all spaceships whisper.
This spacesuit is sorry.
It lost it's footing and tumbled, dust particles rising into thinning air that will never settle in the same place again.
And meanwhile (back at the ranch), that abscess, that black hole, that devourer of space and folder of time
along with the devoured itself
all ran together like wet paint in the embryonically soft interior of the spacesuit.
It grew like mushrooms and began working holes the way soft brown moths work on closet coats.
Either way, sorry is not enough. Not as far as space suits go.
So it's begun cataloging the impossibly complex wiring under the consoles in the mirror lined capsule
and working a pocket knife into the locks on the briefcase that is chained to its wrist and is marked "heirlooms".
This space suit is sorry.