My days are out of joint and shuffled up,
 and memories are pictures cast upon
  the floor, and rummaged through 'til chaos reigns, 
 and I pick random recollections out
  of all the events ever to transpire.

They seem no more my life than another's:
 a glance, a glimpse, a blank firing of mind,
 a wicked hope that truth will come to me.

But all I see are monochrome mindscapes
 that could've been wrenched out of another mind,
  or made from AI's collage artistry
 to serve some distant master's deep wish to
  learn what hot-injected time does to a soul,
  and if shuffled scene stacks can make one whole?