Jim sat, reclined on his rocking chair on the front porch. His hands lazily danced across the instrument in his hand, an old, beat up string instrument. The contact of his fingers on the key creates a light strum, adding together to make a slow musical piece. He often wakes early, to sit on the front porch and watch the runners go by. For some reason, this somehow reminded him of his home. His home city, in his home continent, in his home planet. That is where he should be, laughing with his friends at a cozy bar, playing cards while chatting about current events, not exiled to wander the depths of the beyond.