Feed Me
Late at night the pressure builds. The only release to feed the beast.
Write something…
The disappearing prompt becons us all to produce. To feed the algorithm. This Little Shop of Horrors called ‘“Substack”. “Feed me Seymour!” Salival rivulets undulating across the megabyte teeth. Slithering tongue of random access memory careening about its mouth like a motocross bike that just lost its rider. No eyes except for the hapless victims lured to the screens like flies to the neon trap light. bzzzzz CRACK!
Another victim to the surgeon’s pen. Who am I really operating on? Who is actually being fed to Algorithm Audrey. The keystroke at the flesh encasing our skulls slices wide. Hitting the enter key as if it were cracking the shell of the egg that is our skull. Opening our innermost desires, horrors, lusts, deviations and fetishes to Algorithm Audrey. Those same megabyte teeth nipping at the edges of our ears. Feeeeeedddd Meeeeeee! Am I the bait or am I the meal?
Write something…Feed Me Seymour…