The Sirena
You've been tossing around phrases and metaphors for longer than you can keep track of in your prison cell of a black hole. You've got no fingers to count the seconds on and you've no feet to tap to track the minutes. You don't possess any knees to knock in time or any objects that will do it for you. You are nothing. Physically and virtually, nothing.
You've been floating in this state of pure consciousness since you were thirty years old. You've got no idea how old you are now, but it feels like you should have wasted away at this point if you had a body to age and decompose. You wish it worked that way. You're desperate to see, to taste, to hold things. Alas, this is your punishment for being a revolutionary.
Your name used to be Iris. Where you dwelled, there was only need for a single name, so when you found yourself in a dark sewer tunnel full of refugees with an extremely advanced language and strange clothing, you were more than frustrated in your efforts to explain to the natives that your name was "Iris", not "Iris Who?"
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