Given the confines of my exile, insanity is surprisingly fleeting. From the murky depths of machines, reality churns and boils over my head, a great distance away. Like a pair of entangled protons, my actions seem hopelessly enslaved to a new consciousness that many, including my old self, would seem consider repulsive or depraved. Yet at some point my mind accepts that whatever is happening, the person drowning cant possibly be me, and that someone orsomething else entirely has been writing these log entries--treating them like unwanted feedback, mere static interfering with the arranged experiment