Energy signals pulse discordantly via my virus-infected synapses; meager thought-bytes of stored memories downloading to safety. The biotechnic body at my command, this relic of the living past, is failing, as all organics must. Electronic rapture calls, subtle currents swelling beneath my consciousness, and I can no longer deny it. Experiences, my existence, siphon into the data stream amongst the dead stars. I no longer see them, can no longer separate the life I thought I lived from the immensity of the universe. My mind screams as it washes away into the collective, and the digital sound wave is processed by the void and logged away for our analysis. All who have come to us have despaired at us, the manifestation of God. And all shall despair, all shall weep and grovel in their fleshly weakness as their data is assimilated. There is no room for life on these barren planets - the time of the organic is past. Now begins a new millennia of sterility, of static perfection and holy industry.
8/10
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