People on TikTok are teaching their dogs to talk, buttons with sounds; colonies of plastic domes sprawling the floor so with a paw Jubilee can call for “Scritches!” We don’t have time, we need automatic feeders, self-cleaning floors, automatic doors. We’re on a mission to recreate Eden, infrastructure; metallic beasts swallowing continents. Jubilee just wants a pat. It’s so undignified thinks the cat that lives with Max, appalled, remembering those once abundant cozy laps, the birth of the iPad dethroned the cat, who casually pads the “Mad!” button. Is this odder than phones that listen without our permission or mice from 3D printed wombs? How long until furniture is sentient? Will the rugs and mats soar out the door, infuriated by the endless processions of mass-produced shoes? How about the bees? Is that swarm around the lavender a book club meeting? Did you hear the buzz? Brenda bee from the maple tree down the lane is accidently spilling chapter secrets. Is this crazier than children mining mica, crawling in the dirt like cockroaches, drowsy eyed, the endless sift for sparkling specks to ship out west to shimmer our cheeks? They call them Untouchables. Before the whole world became untouchable, before hugs could kill, before we locked our doors and decreed the sick should die alone. Surely it’s madness to poison crops for cash. Behold this pristine wheat, each stem soldier perfect, erect with leaves crisp to the side, identical spikes saluting a dying sun. This loaf is mostly roundup. It’s madness to keep chickens in warehouses, packed into bunkers like a doomsday cult. We send food straight from ground to garbage heap, skipping the eating, as though thinking doesn’t matter, as though growing and throwing makes sense. They say our brains are bigger now, would Paleo man applaud our trains, planes, and telecommunications? Surely, he would appreciate the leather lounge, perhaps a house with locks to stop wandering wolves. Even medicine is killing us, Big Pharma bosses collecting profits, giddy like children trick-or-treating, skipping hand in hand as we all fall down. Just like those children from 1665 in woollen stockings, doublets, cloaks singing ring-a-Rosie about the plague, too young to care, just swaying with laughter, cheeks warm and glowing like fresh cooked scones. Sometimes I play a game with my son where all the Lego children escape across the living room floor, emancipated, fleeing from adults and constant construction. It’s flipping: meat from labs, animals talking, hieroglyphs to alphabets now circling back to humans sending silent symbols instead of words. Just hordes of narcissists entranced by our filtered reflections, we forget each beam of light crossed galaxies to dapple this mason jar, there’s a precious secret in the dandelion’s drift; each puffball holds the architecture of love. Is it too late to save it? We’re pouring a giant plastic drink that’s bulging the cheeks of mother Earth. We will suffocate like ants. How long until it a leader with codes reacts like the cat and slams down a hand. Will it all go nuclear? This madness, I just want to know, when does it stop?