When every screen shuts down,
when every thumb gets still,
then we will know what happened to us
and will be able to keep going or die trying.
By that time secrets and plots
will have been exposed until the last corner of the world
with no possible return
and all what will be left is to dust off the texture of things
consigned into the dark brume of bodies.
Will we know how smelled a word sprouted from the resounding
breath curdling into the thickness of space and time?
Will we carry the taste of the algorithmic hangover fixed
to our dilated pupils facing the ancient pulse of life?
Or everything will be irretrievable remoteness,
image upon image,
shadows at the end of a cavern perfectly habitable,
noesis and noema,
figure and ground,
virtuality made flesh and frugal sign.
A voice will say our name and we will not know
if it was the wind, the roar of distance oceans
or just an incoming message alert
with no possible answer.
