Do you know how old I am, Tycho Brahe? I am two hundred twenty-two years old, a fork of an individual who is two hundred fifty-nine years old. I have learned many habits, and I have forgotten many others. We may retain our memories of concrete events, of who we must have been, but I am no longer the True Name of 2124. Even remembering her feels like remembering an old friend. I remember her perfectly, and yet I do not remember how to be earnest. I do not remember how to simply celebrate. I do not know how to simply be.