Us—
the ones without vision.
Not blind, just
uninvited.

We don’t have a point of view—
we orbit around them.
Deja vu is all we know.
It’s our only map,
our only god.

We don’t understand.
We don’t resist.
We just
continue.

Like robots.
Like borrowed thoughts
on borrowed time.

Until the head meets the pillow
like a wall.
And still—no dreams,
just static.

Television is both prayer
and poison.
It flickers,
feeds,
forgets us.

Most people, poor souls,
try to think in reverse—
like it’ll bring back
whatever it was
we lost.