Windswept
High on a windswept moor, as far away from people as you can decently get, there is a Research Facility. In it, you will find thousands of dead people in test tubes. Not the people themselves, you understand, not their arms and legs and spleens and all the other messy bits, which have long since decomposed. Their minds. I am not there yet, but soon will be. The last day of my life expectancy hurtles towards me. My lungs have been a joke for quite a while now, but now the joke is spreading. Every day this obscene, rickety, creaking excuse for a body feels less like something to be lived in or through, and more like something to be escaped from. Diogenes may have lived in a barrel, but at least he didn't become one. Lucky Diogenes. I still have a mind - not a particularly good one, but a mind - and thus am a candidate for preservation. (So would you be, if you cared enough about it.) The process, I am given to understand, involves transferring the contents o...