#war

Murderware: A Lullaby for the Algorithm

The drone does not dream of sheep—it dreams of heat signatures, little embers of you, flickering like defective pixels on a contractor’s second monitor. Click. The crosshair kisses a rooftop. Click. A birthday is canceled. The algorithm yawns, stretches its binary limbs, and whispers to the analyst: "Do you want to see her again?" Here—zoom in on her ribs, count them like barcodes as she learns to breathe sideways.