They live, but no one will ever know. Somewhere beneath the pulse of need that drives them, that ties them together, there are seeds of are tenders, sowing worlds. They are sacrifices whose passing will speed the harvest.
They are aware, and through singular instincts, feel: sadness, anger, confusion, happiness, delirium.
One feels resignation. Its movements are stiff and apathetic. It will not even raise a hand to change the landscape. Whether it succeeds or fails, it knows it will never see its work fulfilled. No one will know what its life was like.
That is what being godlike means.