ABOUT THE POEM: This is the howl of a man who once believed the screen could deliver everything: love, validation, sex, revolution. He logged on chasing the old promise—endless women, endless stories, endless possibility—and found only a mausoleum. The hero (some imagined perfect self) won’t commit to a single date. The heroine (every fantasy rolled into one) refuses to undress, even in private messages. Real whores exhausted him; digital ones finished the job. Then the machines took over completely. Articles written by algorithms, comments posted by algorithms, thirst traps looped from 2018. No human heat left, just cold circulation. AI didn’t kill the internet; it embalmed it, kept the corpse twitching so the ads could still harvest eyeballs. He arrived looking for connection and got trapped in an infinite mirror maze of pattern and noise. The anger isn’t his fault—it was injected, drip by drip, every time the feed lied to him. Now the bottle has shattered. What spills out is grief disguised as rage. Ronie Dinosaur is not the villain here. He is the evidence. The anger isn’t native; it was poured in, one poisoned drop at a time, until the bottle finally split and the last real scream leaked out into the void. He still hears her laughter in the static, clothes forever on. The screen stays lit, but nothing behind it breathes anymore.