Approved: 1,243 impressions.

Morning.
 I wake as a profile picture.

Not a beetle. Worse:
 a whitened rectangle.

The house is quiet.
 The feed is not.
 Blue light. Blue applause.

A clerk of numbers stamps my day.
 Approved: 1,243 impressions.
 Declined.

I queue at the door marked Opportunity.
 A moderator with a soft smile checks my posture.
 “Grateful?”
 “Yes.”
 “Honoured?”
 “Always.”
 “Any failures to declare?”
 “Only the unshareable ones.”
 The door does not open.
 It refreshes.

Lobby: a fountain of bullet points.
 Water made of lessons.
 Everything laminated.
 “Cover your food.”
 “Cover your fear.”
 “Cover your complexity.”

A man gives me nine steps.
 They shine like wet rock.
 They ask for my email.

A woman thanks her team.
 The team is a mirror.
 They clap in unison.

A recruiter walks over, thin as a policy.
 Her hands are forms.
 Her eyes are filters.
 “Any gaps?” she asks.
 “Only the years I was a person.”

I try to tell the truth.
 It arrives in bad light.
 It smells like coffee and error budgets.
 It wears an old timestamp.
 The truth is led out.
 Dress code violation.

The castle is remote now.
 Everyone works there.
 No one has seen it.
 Invites arrive at midnight.
 Declines stay silent.

A beetle scuttles by.
 He has a Creator Badge.
 His shell is a slide deck.
 “Build more carapace,” he says.
 “Ship more shine.”

I find a door labelled Authentic.
 It is small.
 I kneel.
 Inside, a clerk the size of a thought.
 He stamps my chest:
 “Not Suitable For Homepage.”

Above us, the algorithm hums.
 It likes tidy endings.
 It hates weight.

In the atrium, success hangs from a pulley.
 We take turns hauling it up.
 We wave from the top.
 We wave from the fall.
 Both posts do well.

Someone says “evidence.”
 Security arrives. Profiles polished.
 They walk him out through the Gift Shop of Mindset.
 Receipts are ready.

Lunch.
 We eat endorsements.
 Chewy, bland.
 A pea republic forms in the comments.
 They declare freedom from nuance.
 Their flag is a template.

Afternoon audit.
 Have I been human today?
 I tick the boxes.
 Empathy.
 Curiosity.
 Leadership.
 The ink is invisible.
 The boxes tick themselves.

Night.
 The lobby empties.
 Mops of inspiration glide through.
 A cleaner hums a song with no bullets.
 Her hands smell like lemons, not brand.

I sit on the floor.
 I take off my headshot.
 Bone and plain air.
 A small breath no one can sell.

I call the door marked Outside.
 It rings.
 Rings again.
 Then opens like a window.

No counters.
 No instructions.
 A cat climbs the fence.
 A neighbour laughs.
 Someone loses a game and stays kind.

I write a post I won’t post.
 It is about the warp in a wooden table.
 How water found it and stayed.
 How hands learned to set cups on either side.

I sleep as a person.
 Tomorrow I may wake as a profile.
 Or not.

If the clerk asks, tell him:
 I went looking for the castle.
 I found a kitchen.
 It was enough.

F.S.F.