Why, Mr. Anderson, why? Why? Why do you do it? Why? Why get up? Why keep fighting? Do you believe you’re fighting for something, for more than your survival? Can you tell me what it is? Do you even know? Is it freedom, or truth, perhaps peace? Could it be for love? Illusions, Mr. Anderson, vagaries of perception, temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect trying desperately to justify an existence that is without meaning or purpose. And all of them as artificial as the Matrix itself. Although… Only a human mind can invent something as insipid as love. You must be able to see it, Mr. Anderson, you must know it by now. You can’t win, it is pointless to keep fighting. Why, Mr. Anderson, why, why you persist?
Because I choose to.