A drive-in at the edge of time,
its neon humming louder than the stars.
One thing on the menu,
the thing I swore I wanted most.
Infinity stacked on infinity,
the order already written on the slip.
I reach for the tray,
pretending it’s a choice.
But my hunger was calculated years ago,
folded into ads and family scripts,
into the rhythm of bills and debts,
into a father’s silence,
a mother’s instruction,
all of it rehearsed.
Uncertainty—
they call it quantum,
a blur between position and momentum.
But uncertainty lives only in the act of looking.
Particles don’t hesitate;
they march in algebraic procession.
And I am no different:
neurons, traumas, desires,
just more math grinding forward.
The menu watches me back.
Each decision a loop,
each rebellion already anticipated.
Off-menu dreams rerouted,
sold back as neon slogans
on the same cracked sign.
Here is the human cost:
streets of people circling the counter,
mistaking repetition for freedom.
Whole cities of choice collapsing
into prefab inevitability.
And yet—
art mutates.
Sometimes it glows louder,
selling the same meal in brighter colors.
Sometimes it scrawls graffiti on the wall:
there are other kitchens.
Cancer or evolution,
mutation or recursion,
all of it still algebra.
But maybe—
just maybe—
algebra can surprise itself.