The only thing that ever separated me from other people was my memories. I have too many. I remember one time when I was on Earth. I was leading a scouting party a few hundred years after my birth. We came across an old abandoned town. There was little left but the buildings. I ordered a search of the town, and little was found; save one item. It was a metal box about two feet wide and long, and about six inches high. It had slots in one end, and numerous small holes and protrusions, grouped in clusters, on the other. To everyone else in the group, it had no significance. There was writing on the slotted side, that hinted at some sort of military intelligence. That caused a stir until I identified the item. It was a computer. An old computer. Something I hadn't seen in over a hundred years. One hundred years! Useless really, not even in working order. The memories it brought back though! Conversations with my dad about the computer industry; arguments with my friends about the best kind of computer; people from my church; kids I had baby-sat for. Memory upon memory flooded back to me, and each one brought a million more. I re-lived my entire life again in those next few minutes, and then I began to cry. Those with me didn't know what to do. They had never seen me cry; they probably thought I did not know how. It had been a long time yes, but I knew how to cry. It is one of my many memories. Here I am now, millions of years later, recording words that no one is here to see. Even now I fall back on my native English, a language dead for much of my life. "Why" seems to be the word on my lips all the time now. The word I cannot voice because I live in an airless vacuum. The word, that, no matter how loud I cry, cannot be heard. Memories, yes, they are good. But now that I am all alone, they taunt me. Why must I live here so alone? Friendless. Not even an enemy to fight any more. They are all gone now too. I am all alone, and all I can do is ask "Why?"

. . . to my memories.

8/6/95