My eyes are telling me,
As are the nerve endings in my digits,
And the words on the screen,
My right thumb's sore from the iphone home key,
Hence, they changed the design,
Woe we with the older generation,
We're both sooner to die,
Not getting to finally link our brains,
Like digital fingers,
We'll have to seek for consciousness elswhere,
Maybe in the liver,
Or in the cloud,
Where our mind-drones will be,
Taking selfies from hundreds of feet up,
Circumventing my eyes so I can see.
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