The Machine That Forgets Its Name

The body wakes each morning like a factory restarting after a blackout — gears coughing, lights flickering, the smell of ozone and unfinished dreams.

Outside, the horizon hums with the sound of something enormous pretending to be eternal. Birds trace equations in the air that never balance.

Every breath feels borrowed from a stranger who never asked for it back. We polish our reflections as if the glass might someday remember us. We build monuments out of seconds, stacking them carefully, hoping the architecture of repetition will trick the void into applause.

But the machine keeps running. It doesn’t care who’s inside. It doesn’t care if the music stops. It only wants motion — the slow grind of existence turning itself into dust.

And when the lights finally dim, there’s no curtain call, no audience, just the faint click of the universe resetting its clock and whispering, again.

N.P.: “Confusion Illusion” – Solar Fields