-'transmission start: 08:45 hours'-

Sunday, August 22, 2325.

My name is Tiffin.

Aigner Corporation supplements my continued existence.

You must know them..

I'm sitting at my desk now, lining up beads and fake rhinestones in a terribly formed plastic jewelry piece. The whole device was lazily prepared as a statement of humanity.

"Humanity is lazy!" the piece shouted.

I did quite good, this statement was exactly what was desired by Aigner and his clients.

At my drawers edge laid a layer of dust bunnies; which lusted after my Aigner heart. That symmetrical heart needed time for its statement, so I let it rest there to think. Perhaps for eternity.

In exchange for my meager handiwork, those creatures have granted me time for leisure.

This toxic leisure that has left us all blinded and purposeless.

This journal is possible through this cost.

I store my journal in a microchip, written through my optic nerve.

Thereafter it is transported to my ear canal, where it evades detection during retina scans.

-'the transmission became undetectable at 09:00 hours.'-

-'the transmission resumed at 15:00 hours.'-

My earliest recollections are connected chiefly to my room.

Volumes of my time were spent alone.

Although it was wasted through square idleness, I became accustomed and habituated.

I was convinced of my belonging to solitude.

My memories of the outside world became vague and immaterial, like shadows following that monster of fragments, pieces of myself I deemed worthy enough to see the sun.

Peoples words and backwards glances, however innocuous, became sounds of shadows- musical yet sad- that I replayed to myself.

The sunlight casted wickedness.

However, without that sun I would perish.

Misery befalls me in its embrace, but still I return to this wretched day.

Who says fame is a vapour? That heart.. the aigner, would only surrender to oblivion with god itself, for even it would fear its formidable reach.

The machine was manifold, and its superiority to any god manifest.

I can hear them now. Conducting their deafeners, laying seams with drones that echoed sounds of hypnotic pleasantries. Even my walls would buzz with these machines- floating angels, really- reminding me that if I were to die suddenly, they would be there to return my energy to god. Yes, they were angels.. and remained to be seen.

I was slowly sinking, however, surrounded by labyrinths of sounds, images, and memories of a being I myself could never be. It was the desire of the everyman, the lot of them, to turn themselves into god as the machine once did. I could merely witness their turmoil.

I felt as if I was in a cycle of rebirth, the dawn I awoke, the day I was detained, and in the night I was executed.

I am a shadow.

I continue my work until death.