You were with them in their last moments, dutifully taking heed of their plight.

After months some of them were found, separated both from themselves and from one another. They were unrecognisable; burned, drowned and broken in pieces.

Perhaps because of that, or perhaps simply because of the time that had passed, those awaiting the news received it with a shrug rather than a shriek.

Some were never recovered, leaving their loved ones to dream of them drifting ever down, their clothes and flesh tattered, trailing in ribbons behind them. You are down there with them and I think of you often. After all the recriminations and regret there are no answers and no solutions. There is only the fear that this may happen again.

Will creatures in the lightless world to which you fell gut you, make a nest of you? Will you rust? Will you die?

Or will you store your memories for millenia, to tell them to another race of men?

Oh, black box recorder, if only we could hear you now.