What is consciousness? Is it like software that needs hardware to run? Can a brain be simulated? If it can, would we be able to achieve immortality simply by uploading copies of ourselves to a brain emulation environment? This song is an extended rumination on such questions by a misanthropic narrator who is disgusted by the messiness of biology.
Sometimes I hate my body. Sometimes I hate myself. Sometimes I hate just being this lump of flesh without dignity. And I feel so old, slower day by day. Fat and miserable, stinking of decay.
Sometimes I feel it dying. Sometimes I feel the end. Sometimes I feel it whining, this lump of flesh without dignity. And if it must go, why can't I still stay? Not impossible; I will find a way.
To be more perfect, to be more correct: to be a machine. To be more certain, see behind the curtain: to be a machine. To leave this flesh behind, to live the life of the mind: to be a machine. To be unchanging, always remaining: to be a machine. To be enduring, so reassuring: to be a machine. Because it feels so right to bid my feelings goodnight: to be a machine. To be objective, to be more effective: to be a machine. Because I want to be something more than me: to be a machine.
System design defines the mind. A mind is what brains do. Form and shape to emulate with software pure and true. Scan, translate, and replicate from mind to mind anew. On backup drives the mind survives.
Because I want to be something more than me: to be a machine. For I would be so free if I could only be: to be a machine. To be more perfect, without a defect: to be a machine. No more infirmity, just immortality: to be a machine.