[ Did somebody say, find things to eat?

Luckily, that's one of Dale's specialties. Truth be told, the whole thing is. Finding beauty in unexpected places is something right up his alley, and when he emerges onto the planet, what's the first thing he does? Takes of his helmet, and breathes in. Deep.

Fresh and unpolluted. They don't make them like this anymore.

And then, what else is there to do but set out, find some food, maybe do some cooking, have a pot luck? How fun would that be?

Of course, he's never gonna know what's edible or not if he doesn't sample the offerings. And so when he's found, he's knelt down onto the forest floor, practically enveloped in bushes, small berries in his hand.

And that hand? It's shaking. Just a little tremble, but the berries in his palm are dancing across it. And his eyes? Wider than spaceships. He can probably see sounds right now.

And he's offering them to whoever approaches. And he laughs. It's high pitched. It's quiet. It's not at all normal. ]

Found some.

[ There's a face. It's a content face, a lazy, pensive smile painted on, and it's the face of someone who has no idea how the network works just yet. He's just, you know. Casual. Broadcasting to everyone. It's cool. It's fine. ]

Diane, it occurs to me that I cannot properly convey the sights, or the sounds, or the feeling of outer space at all. Never really thought I'd make it up here. Can't say it ever crossed my mind in any large capacity, but now I find myself wishing I could share it with you.

I miss home. That's not to admit weakness, or disregard my time here, but I find my mind wandering, wondering about the day-to-day mundane activities of the citizens of Twin Peaks. Of Truman. Of Audrey. Of my colleagues at the Bureau.

I can only hope that one day, this recording finds you well, Diane. And it's the least I can do to keep you updated, knowing that, regardless of where I am, you'll still allow me to gather my thoughts in this strange, strange place.