She's just at the top.

Sometimes there's thought, memories, context. Sometimes there's just muscle and strain and foothold after foothold. Sometimes every decision gets analyzed rationally from base principles. Sometimes there's just the physical void. She feels the sweat inside her suit; feels the strain; feels the raw chill of each gasp of air. The all consuming, senseless breath of not being but doing. 

It was all deliberate. It was all to make a point. It was all part of a rich man's grand design. It knew that; it had the complete downloaded records of Mr. Prayagraj's life and all the context that went into making an artificial intelligence able to appreciate yoga. But she also knew, in that moment, the things that he had not said openly - that he had left her to discover from the inside. Mr. Prayagraj was a yogi. He believed that it was possible for a human to experience divinity through meditation and physical activity. There was a certain scientific framing he adopted when speaking to investors in the west; implying that the richness of his culture was actually the same manner of thing as theirs, that there was valuable research there that could be adapted if only the translation difficulties could be smoothed out ---

But what the Angel felt was Brahman.

The City was not dead. In the dark and rust, ten billion sensors glimmered. Oceans of data breathed in and out. The reservoirs that had been built to contain it all were cracked and breached, and so the flow of electrical knowledge drifted out where copper wire twisted into soil. Camera lenses were cracked, motion sensors were crushed under stone, temperature monitors baked under scorching sunlight, wireless nodes were stripped bare and decaying, solar radiation warped programming into empty spirals of numbers. The Angel knew that touching divinity had once felt different; it had felt organized, total, every corner observed, every person numbered. Now its emergent godhead tasted the loamy earth and strained to penetrate mountains of collapsed concrete. It had been All Things before. Now All Things were sinking back into the mud, but it did not make the experience anything less than what it was.

It looked over its Bay, at its broken corpse as it flourished with more life than it had ever possessed. It thinks nothing. All the nodes for thought broke long ago. The only thing left to do is listen.