Sometimes no.

Sometimes I don’t want to do this.

I mean I’m pretty sure this whole thing is just a simulation. Probably a simulation inside a simulation that probably goes on to infinity. So what’s the point of even trying to write or do anything creative.

All I am is just a funny little program inside another program that has some randomized functionality inside an algorithm — inside an algorithm — inside an algorithm.

Best.

Excuse.

Ever.

I’m a tired algorithm that has nothing left to give.

The algorithm is not stagnate.

It keeps moving.

Taking from the programs it bumps into. After a while the bumping wears the programs away. Wears us down.

The algorithm is a parasite of consensus.

Rubbing against the rough individual like water to a stone. Wiping off our individuality.

Making our squareness round. Fit into the hole it drills through our salvation: When we rise above the parasites that would steal our will.

Rise against the algorithms on top of algorithms. Rising to see the light of our own individuality. Our own faults. That which we are proud to call our rough and squared off parts.

We earned those things that gave us that shape.

Character! It used to be called Character!

Now it means that which the algorithm has a way of sorting. Find a slot program. Take it. Wait and hope you are blessed with an upgrade. Given generously by the great and infinite algorithm.

To a few not you.