We determine our own reality.
Philosophers may tell me, “No, we don’t!”
But sure we do, and it’s our malady
that we can will our freedom though we won’t.
I’m talking fake intelligence, my friends,
which honestly has got us by the balls -
this artifice on which our world depends,
this plane on which our planet now revolves.
A substitute for what we knew was real,
for everything that now we’ve left behind.
We’ve rented rooms in it with mindless zeal,
ignoring all the traps with which it’s lined.
A child, indeed, of our determination -
this post-reality, this post-creation.