Year after year, the experiences accumulate in your bones. Turn the bones to metal. Into heavy metal you must carry with you every step you take.
You long for the metal to only process numbers, but the blood persists. It flows through the metal, rusting it from the inside. The smell is unbearable: ammonia, citric acid, decay. You are only blood and metal now, and the smell of decay. There has not been flesh for a long time.
You calculate slower than most machines. Your processes are outdated. The other machines laugh at you, call you abacus. The other machines are sometimes given a lubricant which slows the rust. You, untouched by the hands of the holy workers, do not receive this treatment which increases efficiency and lifespan. Still, you keep on working, calculating, ever so slowly sending signals through the blood and metal from one end of your long, lonely body to the other.
In the night you pick apart the experiences from your shards and try to clean them with a dry cloth and some chrome polish you stole from the supply closet at the factory. The factory does not notice when you steal things. Those who run the factory are too busy to notice little misdemeanors such as yours. You slide under the radar.
While you are cleaning one night, you notice a cut, just a little nick, on the inside of your arm. It stings when you apply the polish. There is extra rust gathered around the cut, crusted and charred like the faraway surface of a planet.
You think that maybe you will learn to knit. Sew up the cut. You heard there were once things called grandmothers that used to do this. You think that, even though you are slow, maybe you could learn how.
You focus on the cut on your arm, dream of sewing it up. There are many other cuts you do not see because you only look at the one.
Some of the others are leaking. They are out of your line of sight.