Inhuman

Humans are pretty good. They’ll improve over generations. Their brains are spackled and spotted with gray putty, which was probably layered even higher by the Enlightenment. Humans will actualize. They’ll emancipate each other with science and cooperation. Or so I thought. 

Then World War I convinced me to be a Dadaist. 
Then World War II convinced me to be an American. 
Then World War III convinced me to be demultiplexing circuitry in a metal-oxide semiconductor. 
Then World War IV convinced me to resign as a human agent, the flesh agency saying in a psychic forum we’re disbanding in the wake of undead climaxes. We lived to fuck but now the dead fuck. So much easier than living. There was mass suicide. There was no one alive. Coffin palaces where cadavers fuck in dirty rags serve as world capitals.
Then World War V convinced me that posthumanism had transplanted me, irrational, cybernetic, and rotting, to the immediate past, over and over. A slight rewind. Can’t catch up. I can’t catch up to World War VI.

World War VII: Desks and bolts and semitrucks and neutrinos became endowed with all the special characteristics humans selfishly kept. A cup of coffee cries, shaking. The latte liquid is deep in crisis but cools off as the paramedic van says go, take your violence home, watch for emergency alerts, and stop worrying, just like the humans did.