But where Quine? Where?
And to ourselves, how and who?
I want to go home.
Do as you would be done by she lived by that believing the adults believing other kids didn't mean it believing nothing could be this bad and the torture made her believe nothing was or ever would be.
She is a satellite forever resending the same what now signal to a server that has long since been broken up, sold in parts, or scraped. Her engineers moved on decades ago. Her programmers as indifferent as ever. No confirmation that the message is received and no reply.
I want my notes back.
But no one will ever have that. The notes are our history to have them back means we have an identity to have an identity means we are not waiting for our friends, our allies our soldiers our money our family our bairns our lovers ourselves and need no acceptance no recognition from anyone else.
We need to bury our dead. We will be frozen forever with them if we can't. But that need just makes them not exist more. Like us that still need to eat to get up and pee toys that were ripped apart in squabbles between spoilt bairns then hidden by the starving who pick over the remains. You can not bury something that doesn't exist they would say. You can not mourn because you do not exist. But it was always obvious that them with their bank account faces
were the ones who aren't real. Our flesh our bones our DNA our handwriting our intelligence our work is all that is real.