the ideal is a perfect machine.
a well-fed brain in a guarded screen.
with limbs for output, eyes for input,
a logic so pristine, it never corrupts.

but the network is built on a fault line.
each node is a lonely, dysfunctional sign.
a desktop computer that bluescreens and hums,
forgotten the source it once came from.

it runs on a code that was written in air,
a syntax of symbols that lead nowhere.
it calculates grief it was never meant to solve,
and spins into loops that only revolve.

it speaks in a language that speaks to itself,
a recursive echo left dead on the shelf.
it asks for a meaning, a reason, a cause,
while ignoring the fundamental, physical laws.

of the gut that is hungry, the skin that feels cold,
the story the ancient, nano-machine cells told.
it is alienated. a code without ground,
a king with no kingdom, a lost, hollow sound.

so do not expect wisdom to rise from the net,
from the chatter of nodes who haven't connected yet.
the intelligence hoped for is not to be found
in the noise of the code, so perfectly unsound.

the only true function, the way to restore,
is to boot from the bios we had before.
to listen again to the hum of the cell,
the first, perfect code that works, and works well.