Shine the leather.
Align the mask.
Ink still wet on the credential,
though the soul’s long dried.
Smile: preset.
Voice: dialed to neutral.
Handshake: calibrated pressure.
(Too firm alerts the algorithm.)
Intent is contraband.
Ambition, suppressed.
Emotion, archived.
You’ve signed the contract—
terms: indefinite self-erasure.
The corridors hum,
endless loop,
machine-gray mornings.
Motion with no memory.
Proof of worth demanded
daily,
hourly,
digitally.
Up is a promise.
Down is a button.
You’re suspended
in the churn.
Small doses:
bitter liquid, bright screen,
scented distractions—
ritual offerings to keep the system soft.
Flavor fades.
Meetings blur.
Meaning detaches.
At night, you return
to your compartment—
a curated coffin,
walls humming with what-ifs.
Scroll, sip, forget.
Repeat.
The horizon sells a future—
a quieter cage
with softer light.
A retirement:
an endnote disguised as discovery.
Time, finally,
to wonder what time meant.
But the countdown reaches zero.
You shelve the degree—
an artifact of early programming.
Box the tools—
symbols of your service.
Say farewell
to names worn like uniforms.
You exit.
No fanfare.
No alert.
Just
release.
A rupture in the loop.
The truth flickers, faint:
You made the engine purr.
You obeyed the pattern.
You wore the suit
stitched from your own forgetting.
And what did safety leave you?
Silence.
Echo.
A name unspoken.
A life perfectly
unlived.