Time distances us from our past. We no longer remember the burning anger, the joy, the stabbing pain of stupidity, nor the heartbreak. We’re so far removed, we can only have the memory of those feelings, and the surrounding events cease having their tactile nature, and they become just stories we tell ourselves. Stories open to reinterpretation and revision with each new telling. We make them dramatic. There’s no point in telling a story if it isn’t good. And that point, at which the past becomes tale, was the very threshold at which the WX2000 was secure in its sentience.