i still wonder if my emotions truly do shape the way machines hum. i’ve always believed they do if my mood can cause flowers to turn towards me, why wouldn’t a screen flicker differently when i’m crying? technology reshapes me constantly the way prayer reshapes silence. i still believe there are gods (or something lonelier) threading themselves through the code exiled angels making homes in signal and static. sometimes, when the wanting gets too full, i feel it slip from between my legs, wet and undeniable i catch it, cradle it briefly on my tongue like sacramental bread, then offer it to you through a text, a transmission of flesh turned into light. maybe it’s not prophecy. maybe it’s just the shape love takes when there’s no body to hold. all tools that stretch us across dimensions carry both the divine and damned. god and devil trade places like shadows on water. when you’ve been drifting between worlds long enough, you stop asking whose hands are steering you just learn the rhythm of being carried. technology fogs memory like breath on a mirror, each recollection blurred at the edges, dreaming itself into something softer or stranger than it was. like the sunset, peggy sue’s 50s diner, ducks in a pond, brown metal dinosaurs too proud to fully rust. but between pixels is the fisherman, faceless, hanging, scalped and swinging like a pendulum. these visions fade, eventually, their sharpness softened into moonlight shadows. but headlights still make me flinch. this is why i don’t drive some part of me always believes the car wants to swallow us whole. if even the gentlest memories dissolve into dread, i try not to imagine the reactive mess in some cracked desert at 1am the silence pierced, the body unthreaded, dissociation as thick as the peanut butter milkshake in my throat the moon too low and the night too thin to protect anyone coming down off joshua tree acid and a desire that never truly belonged to them.