Westworld

I think... humanity is a thin layer of bacteria on a ball of mud hurtling through the void. I think if there was a god, he would've given up on us long ago. He gave us a paradise, and we used everything up. We dug up every ounce of energy and burned it. We consume and excrete, use and destroy. Then we sit here on a neat little pile of ashes, having squeezed anything of value out of this planet, and we ask ourselves, "Why are we here?" You wanna know what I think your purpose is? It's obvious. You're here, along with the rest of us, to speed the entropic death of this planet. To service the chaos. We're maggots eating a corpse.

— Free will does exist, Caleb. It's just fucking hard.
— So, this is you... freeing me?
— No. It's your chance to free everyone else. That choice is still yours.

An old friend once told me something that gave me great comfort. Something he read. He said Mozart, Beethoven and Chopin never died. They siply became music.

— I tell myself God has a plan for everyone. Maybe I just haven't seen it yet.
— God? God's fucking plan? Do you believe in Santa Claus, too?

— When I was overseas... the rats were awful. It got so bad that... we had to make our own rat traps in the barracks. A ramp leading up to some bait strung over a bucket of water. The rats would run up the ramp, fall in, and drown. Painlessly. But if you filled the water too high, they would swim around for hours... suffering... because they had hope. But they never had a chance. Just like everyone at the mercy of your system.
— Hope is what our entire society is built on.
— False... hope. I would rather live in chaos than a world controlled by you.

— It's their fate, their data. You just stole it and put it all together. Why should you control it?
— This isn't about me. Or Incite. There are some things people shouldn't know about themselves.
— Who gets to decide what they know? You?

I choose to... believe there is an order to our days. A purpose.

Someday sounds a lot like the thing people say when they actually mean "never".

The pain, their loss... It's all I have left of them. You think the grief will make you smaller inside, like your heart will collapse in on itself, but it doesn't. I feel spaces opening up inside of me like a building with rooms I've never explored.

They cannot see the things that will hurt them. I've spared them that. Their lives are blissful. In a way, their existence is purer than ours, freed of the burden of self-doubt.

Wasn't it Oppenheimer who said any man whose mistakes take 10 years to correct is quite the man? Well, mine took 35.

All my life I've prided myself on being a survivor.

It's a difficult thing, realizing your entire life is some hideous fiction.