On the Modernity of Life in Numbers

Stifled beneath a mountain of digital readouts I struggle

for air as my lungs are filled with pecuniary fibers

I grasp desperately for any handhold, hoping for a quick exit

But every flash of red I see is not an exit sign, just another readout

I built this hollow facsimile of Ryugyong these many years

But I am not an architect

And these damned handholds I designed are far too precarious

Even without their tendency to crumble as clay beneath my weight

Beneath my grasping digits and stuttered breaths

Smothered by this overbearing mountain of regret and concrete

I somehow built myself of integers and symbols

I had never stopped to look at the alignment of the elevator shafts

And these damned numbers for the handholds are all wrong