la marche dernière

That's thoughtful. Impossible, too. I am, according to at least thirteen galactic statutory conventions, legally deceased and/or property of my employing agency and/or filed under relevant licensing authorities as a Class C telecommunications satellite. In Alternian space, I'm even permitted a radio bandwidth exclusively for the broadcasting of smooth jazz.

I do my best. The brain has certain nasty habits of specializing stubbornly and resisting reassignment even in the more notoriously plastic regions of the wetware. In a lot of ways, the silicon-neuron bridge still doesn't like to be crossed.

What does it mean to be myself, to be any self at all, indeed, if the episodic tokens of my life have been encrypted beyond my access?

My cranium has a capacity of roughly 1300 cubic centimetres, and only so much in the way of room for cognitive matter; my mind extends as far as the ley lines of my nervous system allow, to bulkhead coprocessors and postpentia and quantum blackboxes and—perhaps most importantly—the internet beyond.

Just thinking out loud, mostly to myself. It helps to sort out what's happening inside my head and what's simply in my mind.

A mind that operates without purpose is without end, without terminus.