Le Faux Départ

Lyrics

Procedure 0400. The scalpel of the clock. A clean cut through the delta wave trough. The organism is vertical. Nominally. A ballast of lead and linen in the dim light. The eyes register luminance but not form. Synaptic lag. A signal sent from a distant star, arriving years after the event. The command is 'Awake'. The echo is... static. This is the false start. Le faux départ. The ignition sparks but the engine is cold. The key turns in a lock made of felt. A protocol initiated, a system that refuses to post. Just the hum of the potential. The groaning of the gears. The coffee maker, a distant beacon. The reagent waits. My hands, not my own, perform the ritual. Dr. Dinges, in '94, he quantified the deficit. This cognitive decrement, this clumsy negotiation with gravity. More compromised than the subject after a 24-hour vigil. I am a pilot in a cold simulator, staring at instruments that read in a dead language. This is the false start. Le faux départ. The ignition sparks but the engine is cold. The key turns in a lock made of felt. A protocol initiated, a system that refuses to post. Just the hum of the potential. The groaning of the gears. Where does the self reside in the interim? Not in the body, this heavy apparatus. Not in the mind, this fog bank on the shore. It is a state of profound physiological disorientation. The map is loaded, but the territory is still rendering. A ghost in a machine that is still booting from a corrupted drive. The steam rises from the mug. The first sip. A bitter promise. The engine catches. Then stalls. Le faux départ.