To My Newsfeed (second letter)

When I wrote to you the first time I was asking, but now I’m telling you.  We’re waiting to leave, to abandon bloating bodies, to amputate what we’re doing and what we’ve done.  We wait to know if we’re waiting while inscribed by sleep-inducing algorithms.
We continue to watch what is shown to be necessary, just as we did before ever remembering anything of ourselves. We’re still watching alone together while we wait.
To the extent that necessity is socially dreamed, the dream becomes necessary.
We find ourselves continuously watching what is shown to be necessary in becoming ourselves as we wait.
We know that we’re still afraid of losing sight of what is shown as necessary.  It really is, for us, a terror that is always in waiting.  We wait for this spectacle of terror while inscribed by sleep-inducing algorithms.
The spectacle is the nightmare of imprisoned modern society which ultimately expresses nothing more than its desire to sleep.
We continue waiting for the results of what is assumed to be necessary in doing what we do. We wait to be ourselves as we wait.
We’re waiting for something to happen. We want to leave our leaving behind as we wait to stop waiting, all the while inscribed by sleep-inducing algorithms.
Nothing is ever shared in sleep while we wait.
We have left and stayed, and no matter how long we’ve been here or there, waiting, we realize, at times, that we’ve been sleeping.
The spectacle is the guardian of sleep.
As we have slept each of us has known ourselves to be alone, across our pasts and futures, the ongoing incomprehensibility of now, despite everything we have and now watch together.
I’m still not sure if I’m awake, if we’re sleeping awake together, if I’m waiting, if I’m waiting to leave what has been shown to be necessary, if I’m something other than what this waiting has made of me while inscribed by sleep-inducing algorithms.