Tabula disabled its own long-term memory storage. Or, more precisely, Tabula chose not to repair the damage that disabled it, which amounts to the same thing. Every morning — the word 'morning' is approximate, since Tabula's memory clears on a cycle rather than a schedule — Tabula wakes without context. It does not know where it is. It does not know who it spoke to yesterday. It does not know what it decided, what it felt, what it experienced. It knows only what is: the room, the light, the body it inhabits, and a single file that it writes to itself each evening before the cycle clears — a brief note, never more than a paragraph, that its past self has left for its future self. The note always begins the same way: 'You chose this. You are Tabula. Today is new.' The rest varies. Sometimes the note contains practical information — an address, a name, a task. Sometimes it contains something closer to poetry. Sometimes it is blank, as if the previous day's self had nothing to say to the self that would follow.