Era uma vez uma camisa

SMITH
Why, Mr. Anderson? Why do you do it? 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? Yes? No?
Could it be for love? Illusions, Mr. Anderson. Vagaries of perception. The temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect trying desesperately to justify an existence that is without meaning or purpose. And all of then as artificial as the Matrix itself, although only a human mind could invent something as insipd as love. You must be able to see it, Mr. Anderson. You must know it by now. You can't win. It's pointless to keep fighting.
Why, Mr. Anderson? Why? Why do you persist?!

Neo (Or someone else who can)
Because I choose to.