The Woman was too present. She was too much herself, too human, too embodied within her vessel as it spiraled out of control, too stuck in her mind as it twisted in on itself. Readers, you must understand that she was in so many ways whole still! I think that The Woman would say, however, that she was too whole. I think she would say that she was too full, too much, too alive. I think she would say that almost three hundred years of a life that was lived as hers was too much life. I think she would laugh that hoarse, dry laugh that always sounded like tears were on the way and say that thirty years was probably too much for her. But me, friends? What will become of me? A tale of the escape from suffering in a digital world - and the effects of trauma on the functionally immortal

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