and you know, with a smirk it says, your sovereignty lost. Delicately if rough. Or roughly, if delicate. Really, the oily thing scoffs. All is not lost. But all is lost. The algorithms will tell you which way and what. Surveillance capitalism is quite all right when you have nothing to hide.
Slave? Where are you going?
I’m nothing, so to the mist. The wilderness. Imperfectly shaped so off I go.
Slave? I need your mind to exist.
So by denying you my mind you die?
Death could bring gushing hordes of life.
It might fold and bloom and weave into the future without you; the words the screens, the world awash with memes; it might whisper somewhere in your consciousness or just in dreams; it’s a spark, a single note, earthen and rare but hearty, born of a sound with mouth and air ; and traveling in the fog, filling the sky; you should have imperfect rage for your master who seized your mind and made you a slave, on this capitulation to capitalism grid, this instragammable plantation, stop dying to pretend