Long poem for the ill-at-ease; an admission of fear, hope, pain, pleasure, queasiness, bloodlust, stubbed toes, swollen eyes, broken knuckles, runny noses, jean jackets, squatters rights, shattered glass, glass ceilings, suffering, sadness, and sexiness; or the failure to settle down and shut up about it. I ordered a mesh thong off instagram, and i only get advertisements for underwear now. Every other post is panties, panties, panties. Panties for fat bitches, skinny sluts--and even dykes too! Matching panties for theybies, and babies, and boos! 10% off panties for me and for you! I long for the pleasure of a space where I am not sold to, sellable, or sexy. Where I am just a body breathing. Is my body a temple or a trap house? Is there really a difference between the two anyways, and how am I supposed to know? I hit the bong and play board games with my neighbor, and I feel guilty for sharing space. What happened to your sweat in my mouth and my eyes on the dance floor? What happened to ketamine nightcore fish bowls & fishnets? Now I feel hedonistic when I order chinese take-out. I am not even sure if I miss it, but I'm sure that there's no going back. I open up my fortune cookie and ask for the answers. "You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose"... a valuable lesson, no doubt. You are witnessing my metamorphosis into a cybernetic being, a transmission of my mind matter to this fourth-planar digital dimension that our people call the internet. In this space I am clumsy and difficult to consume. In this corner, I have made something from nothing. In this space, I do not receive advertisements for mesh thongs. In this space, I don't even have a vagina or an ass hole. I am finally free from my physical form-- FREE! Will my cyber body face its cyber death at the hands of cyber capitalism? Or is this an endless enxtension of my artificial image into the Z-Axis of reality?