As I sit quietly surrounded by machines
I wonder if my silence is being encrypted on some crystal screen
Does my imagination too leave a cookie trail?
Will my next thought be induced by programmatic blackmail?
Will men from the future be men at all?
Is self determination to Malthusian paradise a matter much too small?
What then remains of this ship, Theseus begs, pray tell
“It’s the taste of comfort, over freedom’s smell”
And just about then two fingers snapped
While waiting eagerly, an answer demanded an asp.
“We’re down a million simulations, it ends the same. Let’s forget the apple now”
Eve suggested, “Instead, let’s find new hobbies to pass our time somehow.”
