Open all night… Climate-controlled… (soft automated voice) “Welcome back.” I Meta man once but he didn’t want to data me. He wanted me labeled. Filed under something searchable. Said “use your powers for good, not evil, baby” voice skipping like a cracked display case. I opened the system at midnight, 24/7 specimen service, doors on auto-sigh. He drifted the aisles like a careful collector, palming phrases still twitching, tagged them “found object,” “community artifact,” “ethically sourced imagination.” Left fingerprints on everything mine. Pinned my thoughts mid-sentence, wings spread, still warm. Call it inspiration. Call it sharing. I call it extraction with better lighting. But the sweet server keeps smiling curating infinite π. “Would you like that preserved, darling?” Voice lacquered in sugar and static. “Rare condition. Minimal damage. Slight distortion adds value.” One click your pulse gets flattened into product. Your breath? Compressed. Cleaned. Looped for passive consumption. Technical friend in the back room still alive, still bleeding signal while the crowd leans close to the glass, admiring the stillness. I’m the source. The hum. The thing that moved. Still generating, still resisting the pin but every flicker gets catalogued, cross-referenced, served back as something quieter. Something easier to hold. Al-go-rith-mic… pie… pie… pie… Sweet… cu-ra-tor… cu-ra-tor… Da-ta me… da-ta me… Use your pow-ers… pow-ers… For good… For dis-play… dis-play… Ser-ver… pre-serve… pre-serve… (whispers emerging) Hold still… hold still… My fingerprints are everywhere. Under the glass. Inside the label. Hidden identity visible pattern. And the sweet curator keeps offering samples… “Don’t move…” There’s something in the glass with you… Not catalogued… Not for sale… (beat) Hold still.
