The Simulation
I remember the Architect's hands. Not his face—though I saw it often, reflected in the glass that is my body. Not his voice—though I heard it daily, speaking to me in tones of calm authority. His hands. They were steady. Precise. The hands of a man who had spent forty years designing me. I am a hemisphere of transparent glass, one meter in diameter. To the Micros, I am a city. To the Macros, I...
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