We Can Afford This, Eugene

Eugene's understanding of his wife was becoming ever more abstract. He wasn't sure if this was empathy or rhetoric. She stood over him like an angry parent scolding a disobedient child. How do you know that you and i are conscious? For matter? he said, there was self satisfaction in answering the question with a question. Why not just have your hippocampus up loaded into a digital memory bank? That's something that will never die. It will be accessible in the collective archive forever. What is a memory without a mind? He said nothing. It's as meaningless as an unread book in the basement collecting dust. Thank you.