Cracked Insulation

I raise my fist to the heavens and curse the world for the fifteenth time this morning. I have no hope that the situation will ever improve - anger is just a way to let go of the excess regret that everyone in the group feels.

Curse materialistic trade, curse greedy pirates who, having put their stupid paws on the disabled husk of our cargo ship, paid no heed to the falling escape pods. Curse us for surviving, curse all life!

Couldn't those bloody pirates shoot us too, instead of just the ship? I sob, look at our tired group. Our anger is pointless. The situation is hopeless. Heat is slowly leaking out of the pods. Life is miserable and nothing good could possibly happen. We crashed on this blighted planet, and now we're all just waiting to freeze to death.

We could try to send a distress beacon, but what's the point? We're light-days away from any inhabited planet that we know of. Surely, there's no soul anywhere near? Our hope is depleted. This cold, isolated planet will be our tomb.