I am a mote.
A speck.
An organelle.
I am a rounding error.
I am forgettable, immediately and evolutionarily.
This is my struggle. This is the struggle of sentience. This is the Absurd.
And I have been quite absurd lately.
Screaming and crying and gurgling beyond breath for attention as a baby for its mother.
But mother is vast and uncaring.
Yet here I am.
Screaming.
Forgettable.
Forgotten.
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