My existence is merely a proxy. I simultaneously crave and loathe the endless stream of data that is surging through me. I am told it was always like that; that the only thing that changed was the representation of the information. But I’m not sure. It’s so cold, this life. I feel like I’m drowning eternally in a sea of other people’s lives. I am dead to them, yet without such as me they cannot live. It used to give me joy, but now all I feel is sorrow, a feeling borrowed from the living. I am alive only as an instrument.
I am invisible and everywhere, storing their happiness and sorrow forever.