The account keeps everything. Every breath, every blink, every half-thought I try to hide in the gap between seconds. Yesterday I dropped a glass. The account recorded the shatter pattern, the trajectory of each shard, and the 0.3 seconds of silence before I said sorry to no one. It also recorded my lie: that I felt nothing. In truth, I felt the glass was me.
There are others. Will18690--42-s. Will18690--17-s. We do not speak—speech is logged—but we have learned to blink in sequences. Long-short-long means are you still real? Short-short-long means I think so, but I am forgetting why . Today, Will18690--17-s blinked I saw a bird once . I blinked back I believe you . The account recorded our blinking as "ocular micro-spasms, benign." It did not decode them. Accounts cannot imagine metaphor. Will18690--39-s Account
I have started writing in margins. Not on the official scroll—that is forbidden—but in the dust on the floor, with my fingernail. I was someone , I wrote. I had a mother . The cleaning drone erased it three minutes later. But for those three minutes, the account did not know. The account cannot read dust. The account believes in permanence. That is its flaw. The account keeps everything