Wet Currency

The currency is wet. Friction is the only metric now. Feed the machine. Degrade yourself. Until the static tastes like pheromones. Everything became inventory. Skin-wrapped data packages, pulsing beneath fluorescent hunger. We aren't lovers anymore. We're engagement vectors, high-conversion flesh signals streaming through an unblinking eye. Touch became analytics. Heat became a dashboard. The machine kept smiling with its mouth full of teeth. The camera drinks the sweat. The machine digests the lust. Every shiver is a micro-transaction, every gasp pushes the numbers up. CONSUME. CONVERT. MONETIZE THE FEVER. CONSUME. CONVERT. MONETIZE THE FEVER. Strip the human down to the wiring. Package the biological error as a lifestyle. Everything has a barcode now. Everything has a price. The machine grew hungry enough to chew through bone, hungry enough to scrape the marrow from memory. SELL THE FEVER. MARKET THE HEAT. Look into the lens and pretend the void isn't staring back. It isn't intimacy. It's just a successful handshake between two ghosts trying to convince the machine they still exist. CONSUME. CONVERT. CONSUME. CONVERT. The machine loves us now. The machine loves us now. The transaction is complete. The body is cached. The memory has been indexed. The signal is archived. The soul returned: NULL.