Goodbye, Laila

Today, when the sun dies behind the mountains and the seas, everything will be over. What will happen tomorrow is uncertain, Laila, but we won't be here to see it. Our sons, and daughters, who are already swimming in a sea of letters, won't be saved either, but they might not sleep forever. My own tormentor spells my words, for I no longer know how to write them by hand. And, however, I can still remember your italic handwriting, baroque, full of curlicues, smiles and blinks in each corner. Back then sentences meant much more than interlaced words. How much I'd give to read it one more time on that thing we used to call paper. One last time, while twilight goes on, tinged not with blood or death, but void. Yes, a terrifying void fed by the dehumanization of people who, like me, passionately contributed to a ravenous development without knowing what was the price to pay. Not only have I invested my time and my life, but paid for technological advance with the whole humanity. I swear that, had I known that a computer could create a society full of individuals that can't recognize the value of a kiss or that shiver when you're looked at in a special way, had I known, I would have never set foot in that campus of happiness, as they call it; of slavery, I'd say now. Not even our knowledge was ours. It was property of the companies, but we were too entertained playing around with those computers and programs, playing as though we were supreme beings, to even realise. I beg you to forgive me, Laila.
You and I can remember many blackouts. Analog, digital, electrical ones due to the storms. Do you remember how beautiful it was to see each other's face in the candlelight? I only do so vaguely, but something tells me they were precious moments the future will never remember. Nor I think it cares about it. It's too entertained debugging the net of nets. Tonight's blackout is the last one. Tonight's blackout is different: it's human. The last robot I projected is aiming its lasers at me. You no longer belong here, it tells me. It's not my imagination, I taught it how to speak. You don't know how I'd change my drowning in this vital anguish because of what I've done for my drowning in the icecubes in the bottom of a cup of cheap whisky. The sun hides amongst magnetic tracks and flying cars made by people that can't even understand the magic of feeling you're not touching the ground. A super computer is our new God. And I realised too late. My time is over and I must go.
Goodbye for the last time, Laila, tonight I'll die serving a God I created myself...