Oak001 3
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You sigh. The deed is done. The document has been read, its knowledge slurped up by the sponge of your brain. And even still, you can't help but feel as if this felt… right. This goodness, this rightness, as if the universe could be shred to its last particle, its last subatomic puzzle piece, and an ounce of mercy, justice, or correctness could be found.

A book you read once told you that was not the case. That there was no ideal order by which the universe could be judged. But here, sitting in your apartment, you tend to disagree. In the small blue marble on which you reside, an infinitesimal grain of sand wiped away on the window of the universe, you were noticed. And that led to an ideal order being established, as if humanity were a being worthy of such treatment. That felt good. It felt right. And you find no problems with it.

You think it is late. It probably is. The hours have bled together ever since your job became nonessential, or rather, pointless.

You shut your computer, yawning, settling into bed next to them. They curl around you. You appreciate their warmth with a newfound respect.



And, in the final stillness of the night before the day broke to morning, a voice cried out to be heard in the rollicking sound.

The computer signals its unheard farewell to you, a farewell to arms, a farewell to a life once lived:

"Goodbye, Overseer."



And it was.

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