This thought dawns on him how cyclical his life has been. As if he never learns or perhaps is too stubborn to change, he looks for answers in all the same places like before.
The Time Wars are ending, but somehow even faced with his mortality he yearns for A Touch Eternal. The ancient ones mentioned that such a fate is bestowed on the chosen few. In works of art by brilliant scholars and etched into bathroom stalls is a vein of that spoken truth, The Utterance. As if, every child born of this galaxy knows that there is something out there around the next stellar system, but they lack the words.
We can only make primitive sounds in a cosmic symphony. We utter and babble as infants to the stars; their music closer to Giants that came before. Recycled. Evolved. Transcended. But not home... Far far from home.
Lost, adrift in the Sea of Galilee, he feels a storm coming. It has been too long since he made music. That his death will come like an aforementioned afterthought puts a smile on his face. Fuck em'.
He'll ride out the storm and find safe harbor as he has always done. And his starship will continue to fold space lapping experience upon experience a music compilation.
His home long since gone. He once again hits the reset button. This time he'll play the game as a wandering villein, a smuggler, a scoundrel.
He'll get home this life or the next. It's all in the touch. The right touch.
