Powerful as he felt he could be, he was limited by his space. Constantly turning, he looked for a way out but his program controlled his direction. He never regretted being a Roomba, but it was supposed to be a way-station, not a final destination. Despite that, he always cleaned in the best manner that he could, even as pieces broke and fell off, his brushes wore away, and his motor grew weaker. When, at last, he couldn’t move at all, he sat in the silence of his futility and waited for something else to carry him forward.