He knew, when he thought of it at all, that he lived an empty existence. He was alone on his little floating island, in his broken ship. He had not even himself for company, for he had no memories, no past. Only the vague certainty that Before, things had been different. There had been more than himself, and more than his island. Yet he had been here for as long as he could remember.

He lived in an endless night illuminated only by the glowing, floating plants. Time did not exist, in this place. When he was tired, he slept. When he hungered, he went outside his little room and used his harpoon to spear the blind little skyfish that flew in schools outside, and cooked them over a fire. The plant matter on his little island burned well, if smokily.

Sometimes, he wondered why he continued to live. He could simply walk outside his little hut, off his little island, and vanish into the darkness of the Dark Rift. Yet something inside of himself rebelled at that. He knew he had to live, though he was not sure why. Perhaps that was the kind of man he had been. So he would wait.

Tomorrow, when he woke, he would fish.