Time is irrelevant to us. Days, weeks, months, and years are just words now, and no longer a unit of measurement. Time is a constraint invented by the living to measure how much closer they are to death. Without sleeping, we have so much time to develop pastimes, hobbies, games, and stories. We even have our own classifications of the station’s residents.

I’ve discussed the “Dwellers”, but there are also the “Stucks”, “Mopers”, “Lifers” and the “Elites”. The “Stucks” spend their days with their foreheads on a wall, speechless. I’ve heard it is a result of extreme stress, anxiety, or pain. Avoid “Mopers” when possible or they will talk your ears off with remorse and sob stories. I mean, all those who believe they ‘arrived here before their time’, or ‘had their whole life ahead of them’ have my sympathy, but it gets annoying quick. “Lifers” such as the Colonel and myself, have accepted our fate and actually enjoy this life until it’s time to move on if it ever comes.

The last ones are the scariest, equivalent to what others call a ghost’s ghost. Rare. Sparse. Terrifying. Those few “Elites” can take over a living for brief periods, and there are rumors that they can do it to us too. Rumors fuel horror stories.

Joseph, another station resident, witnessed an “Elite” take over a weak “Stuck” and absorb its energy to the point where it just seized to be. Unprovoked and without cause, he said the “Elite” came up behind the “Stuck” and jabbed both knife hands in its ribs. “Stucks” don’t talk. Ever. But Joseph described a shriek that would have given anyone goosebumps. What followed, he explained, was a burst of light and the decomposition of energy into the “Elite’s” figure. Then, it was gone, without closure, or a somewhat proper passing to the next place. The “Elites” joyful visage gleamed, tilting up to the sky and was on its way.

The euphemism “losing sleep over it” seems inappropriate, so let’s just say, I have been obsessing over it lately.