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In the beginning, Facebook was magic.

A campfire around which we could gather

to tell stories and find old friends.

Then, one night, someone with a different opinion disappeared.

Apparently the dingoes got them.

More people vanished. And those left around the campfire became more like me.

Somewhere in the forest, fat dingoes howled under the moon.

I spoke less. The stories were less colorful, more careful, less true.  Sometimes they weren’t stories at all.  Sometimes they were just my way of shaping myself in the dark.

I think I’ve had enough.

I’m going to join the dingoes.

I don’t want to be a connection. I want to be a littermate.

I want to be in a pack.

I want to sleep in a pile of bodies for warmth.

I want to hear the howl of my own true voice.

I crave the taste of being wrong.

So good-bye, friends.

Wish me luck.

And tell everyone the dingoes got me.