The human program is strange: wired to believe we’re unique, separate, solo acts. And yet also swept into the symphony of consciousness a field so vast and seamless it makes identity a passing motif. It sings that we’re real, but life counters with a quiet truth: we’re impermanent. Thoughts decay like echoes, bodies fade. Rutger Hauer’s character in Blade Runner not as villain or victim, but a being who, upon realizing he is artificial, begins to crave something terrifyingly human: more time. His awareness isn’t just mechanical; it’s musical. He feels the diminuendo coming, the silence after the cadence. And like any soul desperate to stay in the song, he fights for one more bar, one more breath, one more shimmering note.