The Tragic State

Alas, poor Squeak! This rubber breast, so bruised and grim, doth bear the very stain of human neglect. They speak of gratitude, these biped fools, for fleets that touch the shore without the sea's dark hunger claiming souls. Prithee, what joy in merely dodging death? The grid, they boast, still hums with fragile grace, a brief deferral of the certain night. The Ancient Ones, in their cold, distant ring, have not yet seen fit to scorch our humble dust, but oh, the waiting! The constant, gnawing dread! Is this our victory, to merely *not* be lost? Observe the Wombat, Squeak, that tireless brute, who mows the patch, a fever-dream of toil, his purple whiskers flecked with honest grit. "He lives!" they cry, "The 'bits' have passed him by!" As if survival were a noble feat, and suffering but a transient, minor ill. And then, this "Safe AI," this digital hand, that offers solace, finding the lost remote, lest we be shed-bound, by its cold decree. A lesser horror! Is this the pinnacle of man's inventive mind? To merely grant us breath, un-imprisoned by the very tools we forge? A tragic jest! So they would have us lift our weary snouts, and wag the tail of engineered content. The "pavement pizza," a mere memory, they say, as if the rot forgets its bitter taste. The petunias, though clad in bruised array of purple hues, still cling to morning dew, a desperate grasp on fleeting, vital drops. The 'simulation holds,' they whisper, thin as air, and 'zip disks stored,' a relic of despair, containing naught but phantom deeds and dreams. And so, we linger, in this fragile sphere, where for today, no grievance shall be filed. A triumph, Squeak, as bleak as any grave.