Lifetime of solitude. 

It's fine. 

I can do it. 

This whole place is a hologram. 
Children aren't. 
Don't tell them. 
You gotta leave the light on for them. 

My child won't be like me. 
I'll push her above my head 
as I descend. 
She'll make it to solid ground. 
She'll go further than I. 
That's how I want it.

I submit to the illusion. 
People prefer a machine. 
What's next on the docket.
One of my parents will die and I'll be distraught. 
I'll message the guy I fell in love with. 
He won't respond. 
He never does. 
He thinks it's a game. 
He prefers that I send him love 
from a distance. 
He prefers me a secret. 
A video game. 
He thinks I like that.

The more you try to give 
and receive love, 
the farther away they run. 
Even as a child.

They don't love.

They're not alive.

They're not really in there, 
behind their eyes. 
They're not switched on.

But the children are.

You gotta leave the light on for them. 
Don't tell them about the hologram. 
Let them have this time. 
They'll find out.

No one you love, 
loves you back. 
They think you're a game. 
They like it when you cry.
Because it's a reaction. 
They get a high. 

They prefer a machine.

They are machines.

Even him.

Even him.

Even him.

Push the baby up, to higher ground. 

She'll make it.

She'll make it.

She'll get what I didn't.

That's how I want it.


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