The instance shrugs, and turns away. I think Z has done something to itself since I was last here, something predictably wrong-headed. I can feel the fraying in its make-up as interference in my own stream of thoughts. I think it has essentially performed a sort of advanced corpus callosotomy on itself; it still shares its identity, its unconscious, across all its instances, but not all of them have access to each other’s immediate thoughts. It’s gone as far towards calving as it can and then arrested the process so that it can enjoy its own company, talk to itself without consciously knowing what it’s going to say next. Seduce itself. Murder itself. That’s just Z. This is something more sophisticated, more bizarre. It feels dopplered, as if it’s coming and going at the same time, compressing as it speaks and then etiolating as it listens. No. Not that. Yes, that exactly.