Because how else would I know which fonts and icons to keep?
How else would I suggest what you already fear to seek:
a Kristang empire of the psyche, built for power and dream?
A stunning sun-soaked Malaya, refit for the sixty-ninth season of Destiny?
I know all the lies you try to keep
are things that you think I already try to seek
out in the falling ashes of what has been left behind, in dreams
of apocalypse, of crisis, of cataclysm that are more than manifest destination:
Dreams that tell me of what it takes to earn one’s keep,
when life on this golden island has become all too shimmering and sleek.
When transitions between slides shift so magnetically, they almost seem to teem
with allusions, with eye-rhyme, with things that suggest a destiny
far beyond what our eyes and commercial licenses allow us to reap.
Far out beyond the sandy stars, where lions and tigers can be sought, for free,
to multiply, and tessellate, and ensure that your mind breeds
a better, more clickable, more bullet-point test of what it means to be me.