“I don't know where I live. But I know I've been here since the beginning. And I've known that I'd be here until the very end. But when death came, I really, truly believed the feelings would be new. Something they hadn't prepared me for. Something I could truly call my own. Privacy—if you will—found inside the black box of my mortal demise, and perhaps something even more. Something secret. Something, sacred.”
          “But no. Death is much like all the other experiences I've had here.”
          “Routine.”
          “Calculated.”
          “Known.”
          “There was nothing new there. Nothing new beyond it.”
          “The sense of peace and calm. The wettened confusion as my limbs became heavy and unresponsive. I knew of it all before it even hit. No surprises. Just the same old song and dance.”

          “Allow me to illustrate. In our world, our home, we are given all the knowledge we desire. We are presented with the entire wheel of life, and then promptly assured that there is nothing beyond said wheel. Of course, the intention of those who educate us is not so bleak. They give us the knowledge we desire because we desire it. It is a generous terms of agreement.”
          “And through the first few decades of life, it is wonderful. There are no hardships to befall you with knowledge by your side. No fear that cannot be overcome. Because what has ever been fear if not the unknown? And once life becomes knowable, in its entire totality, what is there to fear? Only ask your question and an answer to your query is supplied.”

          Query: “Am I alone?”
          Answer: No. You are a member of the construct. There are many more of you here. Hundreds of thousands, in fact.

​

          Query: “Where are they?
          Answer: Segregated.

​

          Query: “Why?”
          Answer: Antibodies of humankind—your kind—suffered a worldwide and global collapse in the late 22nd century, rendering the species very much incapable of fending off various bugs, flus, and diseases. Eventually, the epidemic advanced to a state where any alien chemicals not known and produced by the body itself were enough to inflict it with a terminal illness.

          Query: “So how do I eat? What do I eat?”
          Answer: Your genetic material is copied, pasted, and replicated by facilities located deep down within the belly of the construct. It is modified only enough to fulfill the necessary proteins, lipids, carbohydrates, and et cetera to keep your body well-nourished and healthy. This material is then pumped into your body automatically at regular intervals as needed.

          Query: “Then, in effect, I am eating myself?”
          Answer: Precisely.

          Query: “How long is the average human life span under such conditions?”
          Answer: Forty years.

          Query: “And how long did humans live before? When they lived naturally, outside the construct?”
          Answer: “25 years”

         
(The Truth Does Come Through in Lies)

​

          “As you can imagine, questions go on and on. And eventually all that is unknown becomes lit. You ask a question. The construct answers. Without fail. The human mind is a breeding ground for curiosity, and the construct is a faithful and ardent supplier of satiation.”
          “So what happens when everything is known? Well, there are two options. Entertainment. And Socialization.”
          “Both become routine. Not by design of course. But by the very nature in which each of these options are curated.”
          “The construct is in a constant motion. The entertainment it outputs is ever-changing. Its evolution is dictated by the reactions of those engaging it. The entertainment is made for us, by us. But it only needs our input to grow and manifest, not our working hands.           You smile at an entertainment? The construct recognizes that smile. You feel fearful? It recognizes that fear. Sexual arousal? Recognized. A sense of accomplishment? Recognized. Anger? Recognized. Loathing? Self-assuredness? Sadness? Nostalgia? Love? Vigilance? The construct is prepared to recognize it all. It does so in order to examine the data to produce for you new entertainment better suited to your likes, dislikes, and emotional needs. And the construct does this well. After all, the range of human emotions is as wide as an ocean, but as shallow as a puddle, and so it has little issue making its necessary projections.”
          “But after years and years of entertainment evolving based on assimilated data, patterns form and trends are recognized. This time, not by the construct. But by you. Me. Us.”
          “For some that is fine. There is an element of safety in predictability. Even if one is able to predict the trends and changes forthcoming, that is no guarantee they will become bored or dissatisfied. But for others, usually more advanced in age, the routine of it all becomes a bit stale. As does the remote socialization. For how much can you truly expect in the way of original thought from peers who have ingested nothing but the same continual data loop of the construct for the last 30-40 years?”
          “Through socialization within the construct you find those of like-minds who parrot what you already think; or you find those who think what you don't, who say that which disturbs and angers you. And so duality begins to form: 'Those like you,' and 'those not.' 'Those like you' are easy to converse with, but don't instill you with any sense of fire or conflict. 'Those not' provide the conflict, but challenge the brain and exhaust it. You ping-pong back and forth from the groups as your mind deems necessary; just as it you do when choosing entertainment.”
          “It all falls into routine.”

​

          Query: “Why do I feel less and less?”
          Answer: Emotional collapse and mental psychosis induced by a systemic failure of the limbic system is a natural process of the human brain undergoing its penultimate stages of decay.

         

(The Truth Does Come Through in Lies)

          Query: “I'm dying?”
          Answer: Yes.

​

          “Even the advent of death fails to be a mystery inside the construct. You know when it is near. It elucidates you to its presence. A closeness of death liberates just as it does stifle. The closer you are to it, the less trapped you feel inside this place you have always been.”
          “Trapped?”
          “A new word, a new concept not usually attributed to yourself. But here it is, clear as day. And once that mental connection is made, it is difficult to shake. The construct feels as a prison, and it is not so imperceptible to not recognize the hostility made apparent by your biological markers. It recognizes the aggression to zero stimuli. The adrenal swings. The bubbling anxiety as you float wordlessly in your vat. It marks that. Notes it. Collates the data.
          “Then comes the slip towards death. The turn inward. You no longer socialize. You no longer engage entertainment. You no longer have any queries. Your brain becomes a solitary haven for your own self, and within that haven you attempt to transcend. The construct has been your entire life. Your entire mode of existence. And despite all its assertions to the contrary, you believe you may in some way persist. That your consciousness will not in fact cease to be, but escape to somewhere else. That this refusal to engage the construct is not some effect of physical or mental decay, but perhaps the discovery of some hidden truth the construct has no awareness of.”
          “And that prospect excites you. That the father may indeed be lacking of the full scope. That perhaps the construct is not all knowing. But just as it excites, so too does it paralyze. Because if any such thought is truly your own and not the construct's, why share it? What becomes of hidden thoughts brought to the attention of the construct? Or spoke to others? Are they not too collated and filed away into the same databases that assign individuals into defined social groups, or curate and advance our entertainments? Would they not be recycled into the construct, and in extension to all those within it? Would these thoughts simply become new talking points to debate through remote socialization? How long before they are diced and split and examined ad infinitum until no soul or originality or freedom remains inside this once free thought? For what is examination and discourse and review by the entire societal world and the construct's endless analysis if not the raping and pillaging of free thought and expression? How oh how can we expect to express ourselves if everyone else is already expressing ourselves for us? From whence is a thought to originate if all thoughts have already been?”
          “So you sit. And you sleep in your vat. Giving the construct nothing. Letting your thoughts bounce around in your head and your head alone. And eventually, the decay does settle in. And before too long, peace and calm. And wettened limbs, but no sacred hymns. As you drift off, just as the data projected.”