the quiet humidity of the imperial helmsblock feels homey and soothes the permanent ache of your gills when the water levels down and there's room to sit and shoot the shit about how your night's been going. and when you tell a stupid joke about that panrotted dumbass heisar from communications, he smiles, and you remember why you adore him.
by every light in the endless cosmos that shines pale as your pity, you wish you could help him, but his chains are yours, tied firm and intertwined, and the loops dig in ever tighter with each passing perigee.













