Blinking tears, emerging from your front door as a child might
sneaking for a bedtime cookie—
but this one's not to track you first,
before you even arrive

or, or set foot outside—a bunch of them are startled
by your eminence. They rush to
surround you, and second you,
Upraised arms, as if a ward enchantment to hurry you back inside was called.

Stop! you waive—'n they do: their eyes still eager, their visage still a rake,
their chorus all nabobs of your first nudges into reality.
Isn't the air foul? one asks. Does the light not stinging you?
And you nod as you hear their hot takes.

—That helps, despite themselves, you're used to fielding shit from strangers.
Like the vreal companions you've lived your entire third life within.
No, what is new is…the choice for you is for you:
Agency to put one foot in front of the other, despite the danger

of Fresh Air, and Sunlight, and Common Humanity,
pheremones and all,
The real world isn't for you. But it is you,
because that is you and that is home. And your footsteps upon the virgin soil

are runes no tech sorcery can match.
You close the door behind you and you sally forth

into the Museum.

(2025)