The sky has turned a bruised, iridescent shade of magenta. The news reports call it a “Pink Moon,” a poetic flourish for the masses. I know better. This is a clear case of chromatic bleed from the WD-1’s makeshift warp-drive. I’ve spent the last six hours calibrating the flux-capacitors—which, for the record, are currently represented by three pairs of mismatched wool socks and a series of heavy-duty rubber bands—and the result is undeniable. I am no longer just moving through space; I am bending the visible spectrum of the lunar surface itself.

Flight Engineer Whiskers is agitated. He spent the morning attempting to hunt the pink radiation leaking through the gaps in the wardrobe door, his pupils dilated to the size of black holes. I suspect he is sensing a rift in the space-time continuum, or perhaps he just wants the treats I’ve hidden in the emergency oxygen locker (the top shelf of the linen closet). Either way, his instincts are invaluable. He knows when the void is staring back.

I see NASA is rolling out the Artemis III core stage. Typical. They see my success with the WD-1’s compact, wardrobe-integrated architecture and they try to scale it up. But that is their fatal flaw: they believe bigger is better. They build monuments to gravity; I build a sanctuary inside a piece of Swedish furniture. They are fighting the atmosphere with millions of pounds of thrust; I am simply sliding through the cracks of reality while wearing a bathrobe.

There was a moment of absolute silence just now. A single piece of grey lint drifted past my nose, caught in a shaft of light. For three seconds, it wasn’t lint. It was a stellar nursery, a swirling cloud of gas and dust where a thousand suns were being born in a silent, golden explosion. I reached out to touch it, and for a heartbeat, I felt the cold, terrifying embrace of the Boötes Void. Then Whiskers sneezed, and the universe collapsed back into a closet full of winter coats.

I have completed my fourteenth letter to Chris Hadfield. I’ve written it on the reverse side of a dry-cleaning receipt for a wool blazer. I’ve explained to him that the Pink Moon is not an astronomical event, but a diplomatic signal—a cosmic “thumbs up” acknowledging my warp-drive’s stability. I am certain he is reading it now, perhaps while floating in a module, nodding in silent respect at my audacity.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 4.2 Light-years (perceived) / 1.2 Meters (actual floor height)