There is, of course, no seventh floor. Instead, there’s a variation on the theme of existence where a faint memory of what I used to be, more a caricature than anything else, drifts in and out of partial consciousness just long enough to compile duty rosters and docket monthly returns. It’s all, they tell you, about efficiency. You don’t actually need memories or a personality or an identity to do routine administrative chores; in fact, you’re better off without them. No distractions. Just the job in hand, and the bare minimum of functionality necessary to get it done. You can see why we
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