Galaxy Marker 7698.21.3245.67

The vast expanses of space are home to many extraordinary sights: the peaks of the hovering Viacynthi Mountains, the blossoms of the sentient Shk'aa vines, and the cryptic cloud carvings over the planet Ji89WsK3, just to name a few. But sometimes, the ordinary staples of the universe can be awe-inspiring, too.

Thrifty Throkvai's Hydrofuelery and Buffet (the galactic equivalent of an Earthen gas station that doubles as a questionable diner) is one of these ordinary wonders. The only remaining edifice on the desert planet Raukstrulte, which was decimated by the 4th Qiejnk War, Throkvai’s joint is the best place in the 6th dimension where you can eat multicolored slop, buy novelty T-shirts and starglobes, and read trashy tabloids in 62378 different languages.

As I browsed the space-dusty shelves of Thrifty Throkvai’s Hydrofuelery and Buffet’s backroom for the thousandth time, a universal translation of the old British tabloid “Daily Star” caught my eye. Expecting the usual nonsensical celebrity drama and general sleaziness, I was surprised when I opened the magazine to a mass of rambling cosmic conspiracies. Scrawled warnings and sketched diagrams littered each page, most indecipherable to my untrained eye, but I kept hyper-focusing on the same string of words: “Those oblivious to The End will be eaten first.”

A sudden, oppressive silence jostled me from my trance, and my eyes snapped up to an empty store. Throkvai and two of his regular customers, an elderly Aik monk and a Joukden triplet congomerate, had vanished, their lost lives marked only by globs of iridescent saliva that glistened on the dirty floor where they had just been standing.

I teleported out of that graveyard almost instantly by locking onto a nearby luxury vessel’s beacon, tucking the strange copy of the “Daily Star” in my jacket just before I phased. Apparently, I was right before: we should all look to the Stars for insight into the impending destruction of our universe.

Galaxy Marker 6%8D.O@.00#0.&*

Just like ocean voyagers used to find their way by charting the night sky, I too use the stars to navigate. My starmaps would probably confuse most humans and interstellar being, as they combine Earthen and assorted alien constellations with some of my own intricate star patterns. In my (not so) humble opinion, my nine dimensional map is the best way to capture the nine dimensions of the universe - come on, its simple math.

Every since my break on Earth, however, the stars look... different. At first glance they look normal, but staring into space for more than a few wexals (approximately 8 Earth seconds for those unfamiliar with Standard Galactic Time) produces unsettling effects. First, they start to rearrange themselves, blurring their light together and streaking across the sky to create a pattern that resembles words: *REMEMBER*IT'S TIME*REMEMBER*IT'S TIME*.

I have only seen the sky converge to speak to its inhabitants once before, millennia ago. It was so long ago, and I was new to the universe then - it's so hard to remember. Everyone should keep an eye to the stars for more messages.

Galaxy Marker 5629.09.1335.48

Phytz, it's been a while since I've made an Earthen pitstop. Hopping from moon to planet to asteroid and cargo transport to science vessel to pirate ship is an adventure of universal proportions, but even the most dedicated of explorers needs to return home for an iced coffee and a non-acidic rainstorm every once in a while.

The log of my journey so far has filled journals, tapes, and Verossian memory sticks aplenty, but these physical records are getting hard to travel with - my knapsack can only fit so much, and I've started quite the souvenir collection. Luckily, while on the hunt for some pizza WITHOUT Kli'niqan sausage sprinkled on it (some new things are really not worth trying, kids), I stumbled upon this school for like-minded freaks and its compact journaling system. The Headless Headmaster told me that I could enroll at PsyHigh digitally as its very first universal exchange student!

I can't stay on Earth long, but I think my ride left me stranded here. That's one (of many) downsides of getting picked up by a galactic garbage truck: they have a schedule to keep. Whatever, I'll just hitchhike over to Area 51 and swipe some functional Roswell wreckage - it's vintage!