What is being alive? It’s a question that has plagued my existence for I don’t know how long. Even as I sit here in the park, the sound of car horns and loud roars of people arguing over inane things faded into the background a little as I enjoy the relative serenity of this green island of calm in a storm of glass and concrete. I looked at my fingers again, eyeing their artificially covered fur and rough, polymer palm pads. Even the reflection of my triangular head in my cell phone doesn’t tell me all that much, it just tells me what I am, never the who.
I suppose that’s the problem with me, my whole personality is more of a fabrication than it is of an actual raising. Being bequeathed artificial memories to create a unique personality was a blow to my carefully engineered existence. Oh, my professional life and the life I live amongst my more organic friends is perfectly well, but the life I live at home is far more… Conflicted. Standing up I took