Form // Function

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.