What makes us believe that we now live the truth? What makes us suppose this is the best of times? We don't learn anything, we don't know anything, we don't understand anything. We live, we only live, in grey convolution one day, in yellow swagger another and in green promise the most—but stripped of logic. They manipulate us, humiliate us, pen us in. They speak to us absolute as simple arithmetic and we swallow it whole. Do we hold information and hope or are we just livestock before the screen? We know nothing new, we still cannot fathom one another without knowing where we're bound. We don't think, we merely echo in a world we believe is knowable... and despised... Ghosts grow stronger as we lower our arms.
# Gullible I have seen the gullible ones— they walk among us like wounded birds, their eyes wide with a terrible trust. They believe the smooth words, the promises wrapped in silk, the lies dressed in perfume. I have watched them give what cannot be returned— time, faith, the soft center of themselves. And I have wanted to shout: *Look! See the trap!* But my voice dies before it reaches them. Perhaps I was once like that too— open as a door left unlatched, believing the world came with instruction and mercy. Now I keep my distances, count my coins twice, smile with only half my mouth. But sometimes, in the small hours, I wonder if something in me died when I learned to doubt. If the gullible ones, for all their wounds, carry something I have buried— some light I traded for safety, some sweetness I exchanged for the bitter clarity of knowing better.
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