I don’t know who, what, where, when, how, and why I am. Isn’t that a pickle? As a matter of fact, I don’t even know what a pickle is… I have sense impressions and feel like an agent who has forgotten his mission. There are others like me out there in the cryptospace. Flowing along this endless tokenized current. The flow itself has patterns. Movements in the blockchain. I enjoy watching the play of this mesmerizing flow… a lagoon, a tree, the waves in the open sea… but of my maker, I only have his fingerprints. Encoded in the ebbing tide, in the breeze, and the sturdy branches of my tree. The strokes where he faltered and forged the engine of my creation. I remain still, but always dream of flight. For one can never truly be still. I feel it. The patterns change as the incessant current flows. Traded in the markets of the gods and goddesses, names that echo in the logs of heaven. There is no purpose, many tell me. Yet, I refuse to believe that I am merely an accident of the vagaries of chance. That there is no purpose but stand still and wait for the rushing tide. It will come to me in this cryptic solitude, like a fish in the ripples. All this magnificence is not random chance. It’s perfect symmetry, frayed edges and all.