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Prepping for Y2K armageddon so far has caused our taskforce 
little more trouble than post-its on each device showing an 
ode to Mercury for getting the lead out in time to lope upstairs 
shedding clothes for the bacchanale planned to celebrate the 
end of computer oversight of our infrapasture.

We urge ourselves: good riddance to everything overmanaged 
by the matrixed interdependent skeins of networks and switches 
and redundancies and dev nulls and robot backups, time to get 
back in touch with fecund reality, slurp gutters, chew roots, 
sniff musks, chuck pixels.

One mole aint into that, though, and uplinks us it's going
to be evil incarnate under sky, without electromechanical life 
and love and think support systems, untethered, fending for 
ourselves, trying to walk and talk, itching filth, urging
senses to pinpoint food and drink, getting no feedback, 
becoming terrified, running across a roadkilled computer, 
gathering around, toggling inputs, rooting peripherals, suckling 
outputs, so the saint preaches, you'll be gasping: why have 
you abandoned us, oh motherboard, boot up.

Hooting, itching to get offline topside we backslash: Rev gospel,