Dear Improbable You, What was it like to live so gridded? So trackchanges? So carceral, somnambulant, asphyxiating at split screens while Nation glowered with rot? What was it like to slouch numb-faced here and watch your image get dirty with Algorithm elsewhere, shuffle into destiny’s schlep? Did your pulse come haptic? Did you pay money for food? Did you dial three numbers and salute genocidaires with crestwhitened incisors when they knocked? Did you pray ever? Hope, any? Or did you take a number, snatch what scraps you could, and pet your children? Everything was happening, and you were
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