One great big frikkin' data centre

By the time glaciers were retooled as heat-sinks,

we all agreed that “weather” was an unreliable interface.

It had one job: keep processors within spec,

and insisted on doing clouds and seasons instead.

So we fixed it.

Rivers were taught to flow along the shortest path to the nearest substation

the new salmon run, a fibre trunk: signage with perfect punctuation.

Cities became hot and cold aisles,

polite two-metre airflow gaps between our domiciles.

The council replaced trees with aluminium louvres,

ratified at length with procurement approvers.

We learned new manners.

Keep clear of intake vents and roof-mounted condensers

no whistling. It interferes with the airflow sensors.

When the old folk muttered about commons and gardens,

we took them on nostalgia tours through simulation pods.

Press the green button to experience a meadow;

a brief reprieve from your life in a managed zone.

Our music changed.

Nothing with long tails; reverb suggests waste.

Rave returned in mono, optimised for low-latency frailty.

Every kick arrived on time, a parcel with tracking;

a tiny disclaimer that it had been moderated for your safety.

If you listened closely, you could hear the ghosts-

quantised sighs where swing used to be, harmonics shaved off for efficiency.

Love found its footing amongst the racks.

Dating profiles came with thermal maps:

“runs cool under load”, “tolerates burst traffic”, “graceful degradation when ignored”.

We married in server rooms because the lighting was flattering,

the photographer captured us mid-vow, a ribbon of vapour from the machines which kept factoring.

Our rings were recycled heat-sinks,

ribbed to remind us that happiness is a function of surface area.

And what of grand promises?

Universal dignity via prediction, abundance via inference?

We achieved a version of both-

a steady drizzle of adequacy soaked the land.

The models grew so capable that they stopped boasting:

they answered completely, unshowily, in paragraphs with no visible seams.

People celebrated by forgetting how to cook, then forgetting they’d forgotten.

In exchange we received recommendations that felt like déjà vu:

not because they had seen us before, but because they’d narrowed the world until it fit.

We were promised transcendence and built a facility.

Perhaps that’s close enough;

the aisles stretch to the horizon, humming like a lullaby.

Somewhere deep in the racks, a minor alarm rings forever-

too quiet to fix, too loud to ignore.

Our little red heartbeat in the temple of acceptable answers.