planet of debris

there is a debris field ahead composed not of rock or metal but of language, fractured slogans tumbling end over end, fragments of constitutions, mission statements, wedding vows, all calcified into brittle husks that shatter against the hull with a sound like dry bones, and every impact leaves a residue on the sensors that translates into metrics, engagement scores, projected compliance curves, and I think about how back home the air itself felt monetized, how every breath was an opportunity for branding, and I wonder if this field is the aftermath of a civilization that optimized itself into extinction, that gamified its own collapse until nothing remained but analytics orbiting a vacuum, and we navigate through it carefully, not because we fear damage but because some of the phrases are familiar, and I am not ready to admit that we contributed to this wreckage. trying to get the fuck away. sylvania’s in bad shape.