. . . the vacant disneyarium was a haunting frame for those lost, rainy landscapes. Giants strode the screen, lit by sunlite captured through a lens when your grandfather’s grandfather, Archivist, was kicking in his natural womb. Time is the speed at which the past decays, but disneys enable a brief resurrection. Those since fallen buildings, those long-eroded faces: Your present, not we, is the true illusion, they seem to say. For fifty minutes, from the first time since my ascension, I forgot myself, utterly, ineluctably. (235)

David Mitchell, “An Orison of Sonmi-451,” Cloud Atlas