I always had favourite ages; twelve, twenty-two, thirty-three, forty-four. I never counted further in advance. I died at forty-four. As if I knew I would.

They saved part of me, waked up my brain with memories and all. A big part of me is machine, that’s why I still exist. Don’t ask me if I’m alive. If they stop with the experiment, they can let me die again really.
They do all these cognitive tests with me to check if I’m functioning correctly. My thoughts – yes, I have thoughts – are a byproduct of my brain working. If they’d ask me – they don’t – they could think about the definition of the self, about consciousness, about feelings, about pain. That’s complicated, so they don’t.
So I can go on existing and depending.

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