It's three hundred and sixty seconds to sunset.

The sun outside flickers like a lightbulb, its red rays peering at me once in a while from beyond the cotton clouds. A silhouette moves right above the clouds, whizzing past the horizon with immense speed. The window still has stains from the color-campaign yesterday.

Cursed commies, brainwashing their citizens as always, didn't even bother to come inside for a paint.
..
..
Distracted again, eh?
An empty diary stares at me from the farthest corner of the room, its pages providing perfect contrast to the grey walls around it.
Should start taking notes on that thing.

I lazily move forward, across the empty room and towards the sofa where the diary sits.
I set the AM radio to its lowest volume, wondering if it still works.

"This is ground control to major Tom..."

30 June 1971
Town never felt quite as quiet before this. Must be something to do with that fella Patsayev, they say he'd been selected for the program, and he's landing today. Should be quite the celebration once he returns. They say he's a bright young lad. Haven't learnt too many things since I got here but think I'm getting there. Government had some silly brainwash bullcrap yesterday; could be worth looking into.

"..And the papers want to know whose shirt you wear.."

Haven't gone peeking around yet, but feel like I should. Security is lax. Miss home sometimes, but a job is a job. The protein pills Molly left work wonders for homesickness, I've found.

Far away in the horizon, sunlight spills all over the Ural mountains, and a wave of nostalgia washes all over me. Back home, it's jolly spring, but here, in the Kazakh desert, reign is taken over by spring's most peculiar bastard cousin. Dry cold is the worst kind of cold - hydration is much harder to achieve in a place where water stabs through one’s enamel like a kitchen knife.

Faint holes dot the dark sky. Karazhal isn't bad, but its no home - the stars are all wrong.

"...For here am I sitting in my tin can; far above the world...."

But the pills only work for so much of the pain.

"...we interrupt this program for a special news bulletin, regarding a spaceflight accident from Russia...."

What in...
You hear a loud thud coming from upstairs, and your hand instinctively reaches your .30 pistol under the bed.