O Me! O Machines!

O me! O machines! … of the cogs turning, unceasing;

Of the repetition of days — of cities filled with automata;

Of myself, a malfunctioning cog, (for who more absurd than I, and who more skeptical?)

Of eyes that blink mechanically—of the synthetic light—of the routine ever grinding;

Of the hollow achievements of all—of the mechanical crowds I see around me;

Of the artificial and programmed years of the rest—with the rest me integrated;

The question, O me! so recurring—What purpose amid these, O me, O machines?

Answer:

That you are here—that sparks exist, and consciousness;

That the absurd play goes on, and you may question the author.