No experience is whole in itself,
Nothing is hallowed, nothing sacred;
Everything is broken, dissected:
Reassembled into something else.
The work is detached from the home,
The one who does it has to morph;
It is then bundled and transported,
Each piece divorced from the whole.
Play is detached from its pleasure,
For tons of data on the tracker;
Function graphs of each parameter:
We don't really know where we went.
Feelings are divorced from the person,
To be isolated, kept at home;
The person divorced from what he loves,
For bits of silver he sold his soul.
Each part, each thought, each of our feelings,
Every person that we know and love,
Is taken apart, disembowelled,
Assembled into something virtual.
We cut ourselves into pieces,
To something, someone, give each away;
Then spend our lives searching for wholeness,
To fill the emptiness, but in vain!