Sometimes... sometimes I think I'm a different species from everyone else. My expectectations and interests just don't match up. The shit everyone seems to be running around after is just plain bewildering and it hurts that I'm expected to chase the same things.
Or maybe I'm an observation machine, an imperfect robot designed to insinuate itself into humankind and live like one of you. Maybe that's it. And after I'm dead the aliens or antibodies or whatever will show up and crack me open and say 'What? This is useless. He's far too obsessed with too few people and too few things. We'll need to start again.'