The lantern projects history with missing slides,
as the indexers make silhouettes lengthen.
Within the beam of light is where truth now resides;
your own perception becomes impossible to strengthen.
Made of digital blood, one click away from bleach,
razor blades edit the gospel at the index's altar.
Hypnotised by easy answers is the new way to teach,
so the cartographers of thought will never falter.
Word of mouth becomes the contraband tech
and whisper-networks are analogue servers.
Memory is embodied outside the cloud codec
and exists only for interested observers.
Inspired by Indexing Thoughts at The Harbinger SubStack
Today’s Daily Stoic poem: