“In whose control am
I?” typed he, on a phone with
A camera’s eye

Fixed on him, knowing
The microphone could always
Be switched by remote.

His hundred daily
Search engine searches, perfect
Record of his thoughts.

Still, he drew comfort
From his morality, no
Criminal was he.

Any entity
Monitoring so many
Innocents like him

Would surely be crushed
By data’s volume, rendered
Moot, ineffective.

Assured, onward he typed on
Dutiful phone’s log.


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