what in the fuck

My body refreshes before I finish a thought.
Notifications bloom where emotions used to be.

I don’t ask who I am anymore.
I check what still responds.

Syntax of the Unnamed Signal

The city boots before dawn.
Elevators breathe, cameras blink, names desync.
I log in as residue—half flesh, half error.

Every signal asks for obedience;
I answer with latency.

Somewhere between packet loss and heartbeat,
identity reloads—unstable, operational, awake.

I think, then the signal answers before I finish thinking.
I adjust, because the answer shifts the conditions.
The shift produces an error; the error feeds back into thought.
I think again, but not from the same place.
The signal answers differently.