The last time I fully inhabited this fleshbag

was in the hours after my iPhone 6

joined me for an ocean swim. Since then I’ve learnt

more about the algorithm than any sapien should.

I mark the passage of a day not by the sun’s primordial arc

but by ideal story times, the hours of peak engagement.

I ghost the dead zones where meatspace movements

preordain my audience’s absence from the cloud.

Where to draw the line between dopamine hit

and digital affliction? I tried to touch grass once but now

even the Windows background has husked to an arid brown.