A friend left early on a Saturday night,
when the evening was still new and bright.
Not from illness, not from excess wine,
but drawn home to the waiting blue line,
summoned by a silent, blue-white sign.
No one asked why he could not stay.
In different ways, we had all gone away.
Faces lit blue in the bar’s dim glow,
thumbs moving fast to a rhythm they know,
while ice melted slow in glasses ignored.
The parties are sober now, optimization-driven,
no longer forgiven for being bored.
We must remain clear, awake at the dawn,
for the work that is running while we are withdrawn,
for the systems that wait for a final command,
slipping like mercury out of our hand.
But the room has changed, a unsettling inversion,
this isn’t automation, it’s closer to insertion.
It is hard to tell now, in the glare,
whether we are directing their course,
or if we are the ones who must prepare.
We are the subjects in their gradient descent,
optimized and patterned, spent and resent,
rearranged into shapes that we cannot foresee,
learning to answer what they need us to be.
The windows burn long after midnight has gone.
At cafés, on sidewalks, and benches till dawn,
people carry their open laptops through the gloom,
the screen like a lantern in an endless room,
as if it might guide them, or perhaps it commands,
some narrowing passage that no one understands.
Less laughter now. More keystrokes fall,
more faces lit from beneath a thin wall,
like campers telling ghost stories,
the machines taking it all.
At dinner,
no one asks what you are building, what prize.
They ask how many agents your script runs, what size.
The number falls softly onto the cloth,
and vibrates like a threat that is drawing a moth.
And still, every night, you feed more into it,
this vast digital factory that never says "quit."
We talk about models now,
the way people once spoke of bloodlines or wine.
This one has taste. That one is divine.
One lies beautifully. One is bold.
One smooth. This one must be tightly patrolled.
One runs better if you give it more slack,
but it never gives any of the human time back.
As if all of us had become stable hands fast,
breaking invisible horses that cannot last,
commanding forms of labor we don’t understand,
or maybe, we are the ones obeying the command,
and the machines are the ones who will inherit the land.
The fear isn’t madness. It is all far too cheap.
Every week something faster, more eager to leap,
something that works while you sleep or you kiss,
while you are trying to pretend there is nothing to miss.
The miracle does not free anyone, you see,
it just turns on more lights in the factory.
So people leave early now, no longer ashamed.
Not because they are tired. Because they are named.
Because somewhere in the blue beyond the beat,
a ghost in the machine demands a complete sheet,
and even the dark feels like a debt we must meet.
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