Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
Never trust a package that looks smug.
Collected vinegar near the event horizon. Lost two chips, one receipt and most of Tuesday.
My moustache was mistaken for a diplomatic flag by a traffic warden moon. Negotiations remain itchy.
Took a shortcut through a wormhole and arrived before I had left. I still billed overtime.
The cargo bay is not haunted. It is administratively unsettled.
One crate of socks became three crates of suspiciously organised underpants.
A box marked Fragile bit the forklift. Forklift expected to recover emotionally.
Parcel 9B walked away. It left a forwarding address and a rude drawing.
Nouala is free, provided everyone does exactly what I say before I say it.
Laughing without a permit is allowed only on alternate Wednesdays.
Any suspicious pastry is property of the state until I have finished eating it.
Citizens must salute small sandwiches because greatness often arrives in compact form.
Romance in space requires confidence, oxygen and a reliable escape pod.
Brian attempted charm. Medical bay recommends rest and fewer eyebrows.
Never kiss an alien until you know where its mouth officially begins.
If someone calls themselves irresistible, check for hidden tentacles and unpaid parking fines.
I do not chase dirt. Dirt flees me.
Space Cheese residue resisted standard mop. Upgraded to heroic mop.
Sixteen teacups entered low orbit. Recovery net deployed.
Brian described the floor as clean enough. Brian has been reported.
Every galaxy has a key. Unfortunately, mine is slightly out of tune.
Played one chord so powerful the Communications Hub asked for a lie down.
Invented a new genre called panic funk. Karen says it already existed whenever I enter a room.
Misplaced guitar again. Suspect gravity, Brian, or a very ambitious cupboard.
The galaxy would be easier to manage if everyone listened to me immediately and without snacks.
Eric Strudelhofen attempted to bow to himself in a mirror. Talks remain difficult.
Brian means well, which is often how trouble begins.
I have reviewed Gerald’s latest song and declared it almost legal.
If Brian says it is probably fine, put your helmet on.
Gerald tried to tune his guitar using the engine. The engine now plays jazz.
Crew evacuated in six seconds. Brian returned for his moustache comb and ruined the average.
Eric Strudelhofen has made breathing paperwork-adjacent. Avoid official buildings.
They are friendly, affectionate and catastrophically bitey.
Karen has negotiated a treaty based on snacks, distance and shouting.
Space Cheese distracts MAAM aliens for exactly nine seconds. Use those seconds wisely.
Do not accept hugs from anything with more than two elbows and a bib.
