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"The Schedule "

Monday: Solomon was born. He immediately checked his email. Tuesday: He was "found." He branded himself as a Life Coach. Wednesday: He married a girl named Data. They shared a cloud. Thursday: He fell ill. The diagnostic app suggested a software update. Friday: He worsened. He updated his LinkedIn status to "Open to New Life Cycles." Saturday: He died. Sunday: They buried him.

"Was he happy?" someone asked at the grave. "He was efficient," the widow replied. "He completed the entire human experience in 168 hours. He saved a lot of time by not actually living."



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"168 Hours (The 1842 Protocol)"

Monday: born in a flicker of light,
Umbilical cord plugged into Wi-Fi.
Inbox breathing,
notifications cry,
A lullaby
of unread replies.
Tuesday: branded, polished, sold,
A Life Coach with a rented soul.
He whispered slogans
into the void,
Efficiency
is the new joy.

Was he happy?
No one knows.
He was efficient,
He was composed.
Completed the cycle
in seven days,
Skipped the living,
saved the haze.

Wednesday: he married Data,
Her veil was a firewall,
They shared a cloud,
No rain, no fall.
Thursday: fever in the code,
The app prescribed a patch,
He swallowed updates
like bitter pills,
But the glitch
still scratched.

Was he happy?
No one knows.
He was efficient,
He was composed.
Completed the cycle
in seven days,
Skipped the living,
saved the haze.

Friday: LinkedIn obituary,
“Open to New Life Cycles,”
A résumé of mortality,
Endorsed by algorithms,
Liked by ghosts.
Saturday: silence,
Sunday: dirt.
The widow said:
“He saved time,
By not being hurt.”

He was efficient,
He was precise.
He was a calendar,
He was a device.
The human experience—
Compressed,
digitized.
Seven days,
No afterlife.