Was PKD right –
or merely early,
a time-release capsule
cracking open now,
when the light has grown?
The universe flickers like bad tape:
trembling between broadcasts,
one signal warm and desiring,
the other cold, terminal, already speaking
from beyond its own extinction.
Male and female – not as bodies,
but as pressures.
One pushes forward, erect with becoming.
One recedes, wombed in entropy.
Creation copulating with its own autopsy.
Reality is the interference pattern
where they fail to cancel each other.
A lover’s whisper over a flatline.
Birth translated through static.
History as a sex act the cosmos regrets
but cannot stop replaying.
I feel it in matter:
the way objects hesitate
before agreeing to be solid.
The way time limps, arthritic,
dragging the living universe
through the hospice of the dead one.
Every atom is bilingual.
Every color speaks grief fluently.
We are not alive –
we are composited,
stitched from ardor and decay,
desire rendered legible by ruin.
God, if He exists,
is a misalignment artifact –
a face emerging accidentally
where two infinities overlap
and neither consents to be alone.
This explains the exhaustion.
Why consciousness feels like debt.
Why love arrives pre-mourning itself.
Why the soul hums with feedback,
half orgasm, half eulogy.
I wake each day inside the dying signal
pretending to belong to the fertile one.
I make plans in a universe
already remembering its end.
This is called sanity.
This is called adaptation.
Dick knew:
the horror is not that reality is false,
but that it is dying slowly
and asking us to feel everything
as if it weren’t.
If sometimes I want to step out
of the projection –
to become pure noise,
uninterpreted,
finally unrendered –
understand:
Even a hologram longs
to stop holding its shape.
Even the living universe
leans, secretly,
toward the dead one’s silence.
And the static between them –
that’s us.
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