“You claim to have in your possession recorded … evidence … from my initial assessment. I spoke with you then — what evidence, did I? I have no memories of, as you put it, committing … to life,” the old man said, then slowly rose from the congenial couch and staggered towards the warbling water cooler. “I am old, too old for all these … sentience shenanigans. Tired of … being tired. If life is not a certitude and merely a merciless way out I would very much like an audience with the Scribbler; there is substance needing scrutiny. I am not going back there. Not I. Never.”