[Log 472, frost-cycle 19] The sail thrums like a saint’s bell, stretched in argent geometry, flashing Morse prayers toward the braided rings. Its filaments cut sunlight into shards that taste metallic on the tongue, rippling through the teeth like coins. Below, the wreckage crouches—steel bones nested in ice—while figures in pressurized husks scuttle over drifts, dragging cables like veins seeking a heart. Jupiter looms swollen with storms, a huge peacock eye smeared in coppers and creams, staring so hard you almost hear its hum underfoot. Someone inked a question on the glimmering skin: *Where Vojta?* The words gleam warmer than any sunrise, and still the snow answers with furious hush. Every bootprint spirals toward that cry and leaps away from it, as though afraid to reach the center. We thought triumph would taste like ozone and salt; instead it tastes like absence—piercing, crystalline. No matter where we search in this frozen hymn, Vojta’s pulse eludes the chorus.