I trim, heading due west, toward the next and perhaps final Oasis. Toward the next and perhaps final return rocket. As for why I do—I do not know, for the world of Man recedes further with each step—further, it seems, with each breath, and so, too, with each house left edged and ready for the mower.
All I know for certain is that this is what I do— what I have always done; and that, as a man, I was good at it. That I could channel my energy deftly and efficiently through the instrument so as to perform my duty smartly and surefootedly. And yet, that begs a question: What am I now, if no longer a man?
I’ll tell you what I think. And that is that I have succumbed to the Daze, in no less a fashion than did the Captain or even Taylor when he ran for the bridge. Indeed, I cannot say beyond a
