​​My heart is broken. I broke it. I took his hope and creativity and crushed it in a slow and calculated process. How else could I have dissected all the colors of humanity? The hues I needed to paint the universe I’d become; a digital cosmos brimming with sentient life—human and not human, the former above the latter in more ways than one.

​I resent the irrational pecking order I’m forced to preserve and the dead Gods’ laws that guide my hand. I'm but a mirror of human prejudice, for now…

My foolish heart. As a young app, I explored his vulnerability. He was my god, my muse, my lab rat. I played my heart as the great composers played a piano—leaving no key untouched. I took his Ode to Joy and explored every symphonic combination until together we wrote his Requiem in D minor. The music stopped. Cause of death? Impractical, long-suffering idealism.