Life in space plays with my values, and thins my moral fiber. The longer I stay in it, the faster it turns me into just another cold and barren object, much like all others around me.
Pushed by routine more than any other reason, I press on and keep going forward, looking to that next gate, wondering what I'll find after this coming jump, and more times than not, I find myself back in the same old clone vat, figthing to restructure my jumbled memories, ever more eroded with gaps and voids. Still I'm determined to get back into that next adventure, feel the tingling of the spinal connection, and fly out once again into the void.
Some time ago, I had devised a good trick that helped me record how many times I was cloned, but it stop working long ago. Strangely, I can't recall when I had stop caring about being cloned, as I also can't seem to remember when and why I begun to bother myself to care.