Everything in neat rows. Never a speck of dust, and heaven forbid, a stain. Each hair, glued perfectly to my head. I can’t stick out among the sea of robots who are just numbly going through the motions of a perfect life.

I am the last historian. All of the others are long gone, because let’s face it. Face what the world wants to bury like a tomb. History is far from perfect. And that is because as humans, we are inherently flawed. That’s what makes life worth living, at least to me. Having flaws means having autonomy and control over your own destiny.

But flaws aren’t allowed. With the rise of AI in the last few centuries, the only way to reach the standard of a well-oiled thinking machine is to become the machine yourself.

They are all little more than robots.

Society may turn up its nose at my rebellion, my rejection of cookie-cutter rules, but today I think I’ll walk in curves instead of measured lines. I don’t want to be like them.