I can hear the cleaner drones. Is it six am already? Why we are disturbed at such an unreasonable time, I cannot fathom. Annoyingly, it has been this way for as long as I can remember. I wake before the sound even reaches me now. I squirm a little and feel the chair realign to my body contours.

My console lights up, and I take my first sip of coffee substitute. I have no concept of what real coffee tastes like, so there is nothing for me to compare this with. Before I start the day, I will record my thoughts. It is mandatory in 2050, although we are assured that nothing we say will be heard by anyone. Each night, the previous day's comments are erased. The process is to let us vent our feelings, so nothing festers into discontent.

That done, there is a beep to let me know my Breakfast pill has been warmed. I move my head to the correct tube and swallow. It is my favorite, eggs and bacon—next, time for ablutions. I surrender myself to the bots, and after I am clean and sweet-smelling again, they return to their cubby hole. It is almost time for me to begin my day of data filing.

I check for new messages first. Ah, Dave has challenged me to another game of Quarto after our Dinner pill. I send him a tick and a thumbs-down emoji. He knows by that I mean he is going down. It is a complex game, and poor Dave's linear brain cannot cope with the elaborate 3D concept. He is improving, but it is a slow process. I note that watching him struggle, almost being able to hear the rusty cogs turn, allows me a sadistic frisson of pleasure. Now that will be a different recorded entry.

It is at enervating times like these that I find myself longing for a reset. To start each day with no memories of films watched, games played, music heard. Dave says, "How do I know it has not already happened?"
Now, any more messages?

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