In the fifty-first century, home of so many friends and so much pain, and the home of a banana grove that was once a field of terror, there is a now truly deserted spaceship. It is a spaceship made of human parts, and it is a spaceship with wondrous clockwork servants, and windows into time, collecting the infinity of a life into one discrete location. It is a girl, which is also a spaceship, and you've guessed her name already, I surmise. They are the same. And somewhere in space and time both, there's a twin, a singular entity -- always special, now truly alone -- whose Companions and collections and victories comprise a history, an infinity of windows into time. Whose halls and memories and fears have been walked, much like hers, by a select few. But tonight we're not thinking about that blue angel: we're thinking about this spaceship, which is also a girl, which revolves slowly in space, still. To this day, alone. And on the outer hull is engraved her name: the S.S. Madame de Pompadour.
We are the same.