about our blandness
is: it's bafflingly
excessive.
Like fictive hoards
and digital legions
of viruses, ghosts,
angels, demons,
we admit
to the possession
of indistinct features—
but still
ten billion of us
feel so mournful
and desperate
at this realization
that in no sense
could we ever be
meaningfully convinced
that we're
figments—
or ciphers
whose curves dance
on pages—or bits
of some childish-
ly alien intellect
which transmit
their zettabytes
of light-
hot confusion, but
don't really exist.
