Throw open the doors of Simulation.
I saw the gearbox of that old, faux world,
or was it neuronal stimulation
programmed to grind as the spiral arm whirled?

It pains me t’ say what remains of the day
is a false front of backlogged memory
bits from days past — woven mind macramé.
Deja vu — but feels real, sensorily.

Send fire to the float tank to make ’em dance.
Puppets by wire who think themselves masters.
Better to feel the slump of one’s idle stance
than the perfect posture of bad actors.

Calling all those who know life is scripted:
“Viva la revolution!” to the gifted.