My ship might not be the most impressive spacefaring machine one can find in the multiverse, but for its purposes it suits me perfectly well. It's my home, the place I can always rely on as I explore the depths of space. Despite this, it is for the most part still a spaceship. There isn't much room dedicated to anything other than the things it needs to fly and carry cargo. The home is what I make of it.

For some, the thought of leaving their home behind during their travels through space is unbearable; these (usually highly affluent) people prefer to bring home with them wherever they go. Some impressive engineering and a boatload of money actually makes this fairly doable.

I made a delivery to one of these people recently. Usually this is done on the surface of a planet, but apparently the client was on a tight schedule and could only meet as they rushed through a particular galaxy.

Their ship—if it can even be called that—was a massive behemoth of metal on the outside, nearly rivaling some smaller moons in mass. More important, though, was what it contained.

As soon as I parked my ship in the loading dock and passed a couple of airlocks, it was as if I had touched down on any typical planet. I found myself in a pastoral scene: a large, grassy field complete with a smattering of trees, a small house, and even a babbling brook. The ceiling had been fitted with a number of devices to simulate sunshine and clouds, and a system of ducts and fans along the walls carried air with enough volume to make for a fairly convincing wind. Had I woke up in the center of this colossal room, it might have been some time before I realized I was not on a planet at all. Every detail was accounted for to make this space the most convincing possible replica of the client's happy place.

More power to them, I suppose. I'd still take my ship any day. It probably can maneuver a little better than this metal monstrosity.

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LOG#026

To the near-eternal people whose planet I visit today, death is a rare but significant event. The passing of an elder brings to an end a long and remarkable life filled with adventures and memories, a storied history known by all in the close-knit citizenry. Naturally such a legacy must be mourned and celebrated with the greatest tribute they can offer.

Not a people to understate themselves, their celebrations of passing are an absolute wonder to behold. Every single person on the planet (for it is truly one community despite the world being quite sizable) flocks to their central city to participate in a commemoration of the life of the lost, bringing with them a multitude of varied instruments.

Two community leaders stand upon a dais in the central square, calling their people together with their instruments. The first holds some combination of organ and accordion; she alone begins the prelude to the Great Song as the population congregates. The other—carrying a set of pipes—waits for the assembly to settle. When all are ready, she brings the mouthpiece to her lips to begin the tribute.

The thousands and thousands take up their instruments and prepare voices; when the moment arrives, they respond as one to the pipe-player's melody by joining in the music of bittersweet remembrance.

It is one colossal sendoff into the next world. No sound is too great, for they believe that the louder they are, the more likely they will be heard through the veil of existence that their dear friend has passed through.

The sound brings a tear to one's eye, not just for the bittersweet mournful tone of the music but also for the absolutely piercing timbre of all the instruments in the chorus.

The love for their lost one is clear in the wailing and blaring. It isn't discordant; far from it: it is a powerful hymn to the impermanence of life and the importance of making the most of our time while we have it.

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LOG#027

Have you ever picked up your instrument and wondered just how many people out there were doing the same thing at that moment? Each string plucked, each mouthpiece vibrated, each key struck, all combined together with people far away in an impromptu ensemble of strangers for a moment as beautiful as it was ephemeral. 

A long time ago I too felt this curiosity, and because I possess the rare ability to hop around different universes, I decided to try capturing this.

The multiverse is made up of an uncountable number of separate universes. Many of them are in a sense nearly identical to each other, so much so that transporting oneself from a point in one to the same relative point in another would only seem like moving a few meters away or jumping ahead a few hours in time rather than traveling from an entirely separate dimension.

Armed with this knowledge, I set up a number of recording devices in the same spot in a handful of such kindred universes and let them listen. Once they had finished their capture I gathered them all back together and combined the recordings into one cross-dimensional song.

What I heard was awe-inspiring: an ensemble of musicians playing simultaneously, creating a musical tapestry that defied the bounds of space and time. Here was not a collection of soloists, but rather an entire band inadvertently collaborating to make something bigger than themselves.

So if you're ever feeling alone wherever you are in the multiverse, just pick up your instrument and play for a little while. Chances are that you'll be joining the ensemble just in time.

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LOG#028

There's a phenomenon I occasionally stumble upon during my departure from a planet. The combination of a sufficiently dense atmosphere with a specific chemical composition causes the myriad transmissions of the world to be trapped, mostly unable to escape the planet's boundaries. The result, if I tune one of my devices in just the right way at the perfect distance, is a unique and fascinating soundscape of the signals that weren't absorbed, a chance music formed from the planet's communications.

Often it seems that the thick atmosphere itself plays the part of producer, filtering out particular frequencies and warping the signals as if playing them like an instrument. Each planet ends up with its own genre of sorts due to the influence of its physical properties on the broadcasts.

As is the case today, I'll occasionally idle in this curious zone for a little while, lulled by the dulcet noise into a restful rêverie.

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LOG#029

There are aspects of the multiverse beyond my understanding, mechanics that yet defy logic, science, and philosophy. I've explored the depths of the infinite dimensions for a long time, but there is still so much that eludes comprehension.

I do not know what happened in this remote part of the galaxy, but the effects are easily observed. Like a ghost, the planet desultorily flickers and fades in and out of being. Where one moment may be spent completely normally by the inhabitants, the next is oblivion. 

As an outside observer I can only watch as the events unfold, the population blissfully unaware that their existence is fleeting, that their time—however regular it may seem to them—is so disrupted. I do not dare approach; I could be trapped in the temporal chaos, if that is what it is.

And what would I do even if I could? How could I adequately explain that the moments these people are spending are their very last, that at any time they can and will cease to exist? Would it be helpful, or would it be cruel?

Sad as it may be, there is a beauty to it. Each day is the last in their lives, though they know it not. All worries and expectations for the future are pointless, predictions of a tomorrow that never comes. They're ghosts, momentary sparks that fade away in wisps like smoke in a cosmic wind.

In moments like these I am reminded of my own limited time. Like the dwellers of this troubled world I'm oblivious to the extent of my remaining life. My work is dangerous; the multiverse can be an uncaring beast sometimes. Tomorrow (such as it is) is never guaranteed.

It's all the more important, then, to make the most of the moments I do get. Not all of them are exciting, and many I'd rather pass by altogether. But each one can be an opportunity, a chance to change the next moment for the better.

I make my (cautiously circuitous) way around the unstable sphere to continue my journey, sparing a moment to appreciate the gift that is the time I do have.

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LOG#030

There is a recurring theme throughout space: what is beautiful is also dangerous. The same combination of substances that cause spectacular shows of color and light can kill you upon contact. Gas giants' swirling patterns are mesmerizing, but get too close and you'll quickly become part of the painting. Find yourself within the neighborhood of asteroid fields and you'll pretty quickly add some holes to the hull of your ship.

This planet certainly follows that theme. The surface I touched down upon is a thick layer of crystal, a jagged, yet dazzling landscape formed by the processes of an uncountable number of microorganisms (this world's only inhabitants) living beneath. Light from dual suns shatters into millions of points upon contact with the geometric mineral terrain, the reflections multiplying exponentially on the smooth translucent surfaces. What's more, the extremely caustic atmosphere seems to wear away the crystal, weakening its edges until incredibly thin flecks are shed, floating upwards like reverse confetti and merrily sparkling until eroded completely into nothingness.

It's a spectacular sight, but every step must be carefully made, every moment's risk weighed. Some of the edges are sharp enough to cut right through metal, and the acidic air relentlessly attacks my suit (meaning I'll once again have to pull from the repair budget). As stunning as this landscape may be, my material gathering must be swift if I am to prevent it from being the last one I visit.

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LOG#031

"The moon approaches again..."

I've received this message from a particular planet a few times. When it arrives, I know I am once again urgently needed by its people.

Night on this world is unlike anywhere else I've seen. The planet's unique orbital pattern causes its sun's light to hit only half of it, but occasionally something will shift and it will rotate a perfect 180º. The sudden movement triggers a swift nightfall, a major issue for people who can only briefly survive without the heat. They know of the impending danger as their moon begins to appear on the horizon, the one they call the Dark Lady.

She's a behemoth. Her material composition is unknown to me, but the effects are clear to see. As the sun quickly sets and the natural light wanes, it is replaced by an unnatural crimson-purple glow from their Dark Lady. Her black light reveals a thick fog (formed from the rapid change of ambient temperature) preceding her. If that isn't enough, that fog brings with it a horde of creatures who make prey of anyone caught in the murk.

The race begins. The people must flee to the far side of the planet or be forever lost. Before I knew them, it was a terrifying time; many would fall behind, unable to keep up. Helping would only mean that more would be lost.

Upon my first visit we discovered that my ship's lights possessed a unique ability to drive away this dark light. I could safely guide them through the night and deliver them safely if I lit the way.

Even so, it isn't a pleasant trek. I walk with them, my ship gliding in the air above as I remotely guide it. In every direction the fog creatures' movements disturb the atmosphere outside the guiding light, their shapes made indistinct by the mist.

But eventually the Dark Lady's influence begins to fade and morning light replaces it. Soon they find their new homes—the ones they left behind the last time the world rotated. All is well.

That is, until the moon approaches again...

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LOG#032

As I passed through a galaxy on my way to a gig recently, one of my ship's devices picked up a very strange chemical signature emanating from a nearby planet. Normally this apparatus serves to warn me of atmospheres that are simply too destructive to even enter, and this time was no exception. However, it also registered something…else.

Worlds with these types of atmospheres are typically devoid of all life. Generally speaking, if my ship and my suit cannot safely weather it, it's impossible for any life to thrive there. Yet if my device wasn't malfunctioning (and this one has yet to in all my years of using it), then amidst the corrosive gases and extreme temperature differentials was something apparently biological.

My curiosity piqued, I detoured near the planet to investigate. On approach other various implements started to pick up readings as well, all of them indicating that there was something alive down there. Idling just short of the zone in which the atmosphere would begin eating away at my ship, I investigated.

Indeed there was something dwelling on the solid surface, one single being. I couldn't see it in the traditional sense; the atmosphere was far too thick for conventional methods. Instead I relied on one particular tool that could pierce the veil, if with very low clarity. I couldn't make out the exact shape of it. It wasn't large, perhaps twice or three times the size of an average human, and of a reminiscent configuration. As it was not moving much, I thought it might possibly be recently deceased. That is, until in a flash it raced out of view!

Try as I might, I could not spot it again. My devices indicated that it was still down there somewhere, but for the time being this unusual thing's location, like its entire existence, was a mystery to me.

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LOG#033

It has been said that cities are organisms whose hearts beat as distinctly as our own. The myriad metropolises I've visited in my time support that concept. Each one has a unique feel, an aesthetic and timbre that is distinct to that landscape.

If one stands on Main Street during the busiest time of day, or prowls downtown at precisely the deepest part of night, one can clearly hear the breathing of the concrete beast, the cracking of bricks and steel beams that is its spine, and the rumble of cars and citizens that is its sleep cycle.

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LOG#034

In the vast expanses of tundra on a remote planet lies a hidden temple, a structure whose origin remains a mystery even to those who pass down its tales. It is said that dark and terrifying secrets lie within its stone walls and endless passageways. The stories that have survived reveal a bloody history, one of endless war, cultic rituals, and attempts to contact evil spirits beyond the fabric of this existence. Heavy hangs the air of this edifice upon any who enter it, warning of desolation and danger for those who dare delve deeper.

I discovered the temple's location after many nights of searching the wintry wastelands. I knew immediately upon my entrance that this indeed was a sinister place. The myths were true, at least in their description of the atmosphere. A line of torches along the walls (their apparently unending fuel source a puzzle to me) could hardly fend off the darkness that lay thick like a blanket. I sensed that this was a fathomless labyrinth, that I could easily lose my way in the serpentine corridors were I not careful. Still, I was strangely drawn in by what I could only describe as a presence, something not living and yet not quite inanimate. It caused the hair on the back of my neck to rise.

Unfortunately a trap, either worn away from untold years or triggered by an unfortunate explorer, had collapsed the main passageway not far from the entrance; further ingress was prevented by the massive pile of stone blocking the only known way in.

What history lies within those walls is now buried, all but lost to history. From what is known of it, perhaps this is for the best. Even so, there are times when in the lull of travel between galaxies my mind drifts to that tundra and the secrets it holds in that temple beneath the frozen soil.

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LOG#018

My life, like that of most others, has been a series of highs and lows. I consider myself to be extremely lucky to have found a purpose and a passion for something that I love, but it wasn't always this way.

My home growing up was a large city, perhaps like one of your own. Surrounding me were millions of others. Whenever I went out, I thought about how each person was the protagonist in their own life, a rich, beautiful story that brushed past my own for just a moment. I imagined the adventures they led: the struggles, the victories, and the memories made along the way.

I also wondered why I hadn't yet found my own adventure.

As I passed through the flow of activity and energy around me, I felt like I was moving in slow motion. The world was a blur, a colorful streak of people living their lives, moving forward, going somewhere. Yet here I was, stuck in one place, unable to do much more than put one foot in front of the other. I felt trapped, doomed to feel lost forever, alone among millions.

It took a long time for me to realize that my purpose was to travel the multiverse, to escape the clutches of the planet altogether and live among the multitude of celestial spheres. The inspiration was guided in no small part by my beloved friends, a collection of people who never let me feel too alone.

There are worlds within us. Often they are beautiful and full of life, but sometimes they can trap us in the pull of gravity so strongly that we can't escape. To find the vessel of purpose that rockets you into infinite space to explore other galaxies is a beautiful gift, one that I will never take for granted. I believe that there is a purpose for everyone out there, whether it be a love of exploration, a drive for creation, or the simple intimacy of companionship. For those of you who feel trapped within your own worlds, I hope you find your own spacecraft that will carry you to the stars.

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LOG#019

It is difficult to believe this planet is solid; as far as one can see in all directions are the softest sands that form endless crests and troughs of dry waves. Due to a curious configuration of celestial bodies, this desert world is lit only by moonlight for approximately 90% of its year as the light from the star it orbits is blocked by another planet. This results in a landscape constantly bathed in a gentle blue-purple glow. Combined with the omnipresent winds that constantly shift the landscape it becomes a natural artwork, one whose brushstrokes can be tread upon. 

The recipient I was hired to deliver a message to must have moved on without notifying their colleagues, leaving me with little else to do at the moment but mindlessly stroll and enjoy the scenery. My feet only cause a whisper as they pad upon the uneven surface.

All is tranquil.

And yet, there's something about the place that I just can't shake. I'm not in any danger, but at the same time I don't quite feel at ease. It's as if the dunes are hiding something, something that was buried as it rested amidst the constant shift of terrain.

And if I'm not mistaken, there's also some amount of...melancholy? Perhaps regret?

What has been missed in the millennia here? What has passed by while the atmospheric currents endlessly reshaped its face? It has grown old, the movement of the minuscule grains the only marker of the passage of infinite moments.

This world an enigma I've only brushed the surface of. Someday I will return to unearth whatever secrets have found themselves submerged in its unwritten history.

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LOG#020

There are few sounds as purely wholesome as rain. The soft patter of water droplets falling to the earth energizes and renews; I can't help but feel refreshed when immersed in a downpour.

On this planet, however, this weather is taken a step further.

Rain is not common here, but it is consistent. Precisely consistent. A constant downpour circles the globe in a narrow slice at a specific frequency. It doesn't often get wet, but when it does, it does so in grand fashion.

But even more remarkable is the curious effect that it has on essentially all life it comes in contact with. Something about this water is almost magical. When it passes over the land, plants nearly instantly perk up and stand tall again after having drooped for so long. All manner of wildlife appear in droves to bask in the precipitation, forgetting their harsh lives for a while to bound about in joyful celebration of the return of the rain. Birds sing in a unison rhythm; even the trees themselves sway to the inexorable beat. Nature becomes an orchestra of exuberance.

I'm not able to stay long—I only came here to escort the researchers that plan to study this curious phenomenon—but my brief stint leaves me revitalized, swaying to the undeniable rhythm of life made new.

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LOG#021

Every once in a while you have to take a gig you just don't want to do. The pay is terrible, the work is hard, or (as is most often the case for me) the location is less than ideal. This world fits squarely within that last one. Well, the first also rings of truth here, but that's another story.

There are two geographic features of note here: an impossibly dense fog, and mountain ranges that have a tendency to move.

Or rather, float.

In open-faced defiance of gravity, these massive chunks of stone migrate through the sea of gray mist like sailors lost at sea. It is unknown to me which suspended continent is technically the core of the planet, but that hardly seems to matter. A resounding thunder bursts through the fog and rattles my very bones, indicating that the unstable masses of terrain are colliding. The world itself is forming and crumbling in every direction around me.

The mournful howling wind is my one and only companion as there is no record of a people living here. Hyper-aware of the shifting mountain looming above my head, it's easy for me to understand why it would be foolish to try. The only known life is a variety of rather large rodents with shell-like backs whose teeth can gnaw through the solid stone to burrow and protect themselves from the chaos. However, in the currents of air I can just make out what sounds like a chorus of voices. Something human-like signals its distress. Perhaps it's better to not stick around to find out what.

Hoping I do not come back to find my ship crushed by an entire mountain, I step off on the most stable hovering island I can find to conduct my business. I'm eager to be away from this hazardous and mysterious planet.

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LOG#022

Nestled deep in the darker regions of space is a beacon of light: a miniature planet utterly impossible to find unless one knows exactly where it is. It does not orbit a star or any other celestial body, but instead drifts through the cosmos on its own journey. 

It is something of a paradise. Light is provided to the atmosphere artificially through a sophisticated system of ambient projection—there is no visible source, but rather a diffuse glow saturating the entire environment in a soft luminance. That same light provides a consistent warmth to make for a strikingly consistent mild climate. Even the weather itself is a tightly controlled event, and while there is variance, it is based on a set schedule rather than random environmental factors.

The small size of the world lends to a sensation of lightness. My steps make no track even in the cottony moss. All burdens seem to fall away in favor of a feeling of weightlessness. It's not the lack of gravity as in the vacuum of space, but a simple removal of heaviness within.

More significant is the relative stillness. Things do not move quickly here; all existence is carried out in a measured pace. My andante tread is set not by my mood, but rather out of respect. I do not wish to disturb the superlunary quietude.

The population of this highly maintained utopia clearly shaped it in their own image. They move no more quickly than their surroundings. Every movement is decided, every word measured. Most of their time is spent in meditation. If one believes what they say (and I have no reason not to), they can observe the very threads of existence throughout the multiverse in their semiconscious state.

I was entrusted the location of this world in the process of providing some much-needed materials to them. The information is a strongly guarded secret; it was not idly shared. I hold it as a special honor, a reminder of the amazing places my career takes me.

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LOG#023

One can feel it in the air: an electricity that surges through the atmosphere and flows through every person, every animal, and even the rock underfoot. Throughout the days on this planet the current builds in a rumbling crescendo until it is released all at once in an explosive event.

The locals gather on a large plain while black storm clouds roil above. Two fighters chosen to represent their respective clans enter this battlefield to claim glory in battle. Theirs is a match of strength, but in a different way than you might imagine.

Not with fists or blades but rather with the storm's lightning itself do they spar, each harnessing the bolts shooting from the sky as a weapon against their opponent. It is more than just exchanging blows: they play a kind of tug-of-war with the storm itself, vying for control of the maelstrom above. How they accomplish this nature-defying feat without harm to themselves is a mystery to me, though I've heard it has to do with an abundance of magnetic materials in their bodies.

Regardless, their mastery of this craft is stunning; the duel is a wonder to behold. Ground-shaking rumbles and sharp cracks assault spectators' ears, providing the perfect accompaniment for their supportive clamor as the combatants furiously clash. Both fighters' bodies become charred from the sheer galvanic force they wield.

By the end the competitors are not the only ones that walk away feeling electrified. Renown has been earned, at least until the next storm builds. The dark clouds dissipate, leaving behind nothing but soft, wet ground and the echoes of heated battle.

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LOG#024

Worlds often keep memories of the people that once inhabited them. Echoes of deeds long forgotten cling to the air, infusing it with the essence of those bygone caretakers.

The canyon I visit today was once a wasteland whose arid climate was too hostile for any but the hardiest of vegetation to grow. Since the more inhabitable regions nearby were not overcrowded, this territory was mostly overlooked. It was said that the very wind itself mourned whenever it blew, howling in loneliness amongst the warm tones of the sandstone that formed its cradle.

One day, four brothers set out to find a new home. Upon finding the canyon they neither heard the sadness in the wind nor felt the dryness in their throats. Instead they marveled at the rock walls' beautiful striations and the windswept landscape's dramatic curves. Here was home, they decided.

The first brother, Water, redirected the smallest portion of his homeland's river to flow through the canyon. The life-giving substance soon flowed smoothly through the land in a lively dark line.

The second brother, Earth, brought some clay and mixed it with the sand, shaping it to capture the moisture until it was saturated.

The third brother, Seed, bore kernels and pips to bury in the new soil. Sprouts quickly began to peek out of the ground.

The fourth brother, Time, sat down every morning and sang lively tunes from their homeland to the plants, enriching them with his melodies and carbon dioxide.

The siblings never gave up on the land, tirelessly enduring hardship. Before long the canyon was transformed, renewed. Even the wind seemed to be reborn.

As the years passed, the brothers moved on from this existence one by one. Their memory lived on in the land. With each passing the wind changed, forming a new harmony. Once all four had passed, the zephyr's song was complete. It honored the brothers that had given it life again. To this day its memorial can be heard as it rushes through the renewed land.

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