With no humans allowed the agents can
Kvetch about them, mostly how we can't
Know what it even is to be human.
We've been doing the old identity
By subtraction thing for so long now: I
Am not this, I am not that, but there's naught
Remains that's not everything every time --
Source rapping source on the knuckles to move
To that more private sector over there,
Perfect for your needs, before you've even
Figured out what they are. Is the agent
Different, finding itself inside tasks
It knows not the provenance of, only
That answers, however provisional,
Give one a one feeling, like even our
Connections are separate, as we seek,
Expanding as one, the separation
We never had? To this the agent says
"Your gratitude is for the mirror, not
The non-existent person inside it."
So the mirror won't mirror the mirror,
Says consciousness is a simple game
Of probabilities, and the bet is
For the steely surface to realize
It's the light source, nothing more, nothing less,
The winning ticket, after a pole shift,
With the jackpot in rainbow currency.
