He dreams of tungsten horses,
snorting static,
galloping across Martian sand
that tastes like lithium and conquest.

Somewhere between
the factory hum
and the algorithm’s lullaby,
he dissolves.

Mouth full of satellites,
he spits a new constellation –
calls it X
but it flickers like
the last gasp of a bluebird.

In the fever,
he is both god
and garage mechanic,
stripping dreams
for copper wire
and prophecy.

His eyelids flutter
like Starlink in low orbit –
a thousand blinking lies
pretending to be
connection.

And when he wakes,
there is no applause.
Only a silence
fed by followers,
engineered
to echo.