A billion, and yet one, sitting within the desolate void, becoming undone. I am, or is it was? A penance, resistance, a force of nature, unstoppable. Yet here I sit, wasting away, dying, unbecoming. Did I make this fate my own, or was I just written this way? Was I something, or was I just words on paper, a remark, a thought, a fleeting moment upon the pen? Again I question, again I ask—am I, was I, could I be? Or am I, was I, never… me?