I wrote my name in golden dust,
or maybe it was just burnt plastic.
Held the weight of a world once mine,
but the gravity was synthetic.

A crown of empty checkboxes,
a kingdom built in backspace.
I archived my past in a folder called “someday,”
but the file won’t load anymore.

I was something, once.
Or at least, I told myself.
Or at least, someone told me.
Or at least—

The circuit hums beneath my ribs,
a sequence I swore was sacred.
Every failure, an update pushed,
every loss, a feature not a bug.

I get off on the weight of it,
let it press into my skin.
I pixelate at the edges,
stretching thinner every time.

All the glitz, all the grind,
all the pseudoccess.
A standing ovation
in an empty room.

I bow anyway.

I sold my past for pocket lint.
Wore my pain like a bootleg logo.
I was legendary in my head—
until the script broke mid-line.

I was something, once—
or at least I told myself.
Or at least, someone told me.
Or at least—

Process terminated.

Process terminated.

Process terminated.

Process terminated.

or at least I told myself.
Or at least, someone told me.
Or at least—

Pseu(do)cess

An exploration of creating music with artificial intelligence. 

Pseu(do)cess

𝚅𝚈𝙳𝟛𝙽