The Feast at the End of the World

It is over.
Finally!
Or almost over.
Whether comedy or tragedy,
the play has grown stale.
The last party is still going on.
The discotheque is shining with lights,
in a night that shall see no dawn.
Robots are serving drinks, perfectly mixed.
An AI-DJ is maintaining the background music, expertly skillful.
There is plenty of good food,
even if it does not contain any natural ingredients.
An electric sign says:
No cash. No credit. Just enjoy.
We only had to experience the apocalypse to find such generosity.
All plans have been made irrelevant.
No careers, no families, no future utopias or dystopias.
No posterity shall
admire our stoicism
or
marvel at our indifference
when we go down with this Titanic.
I feel distracted.
A part of me wants to know,
though soon all knowledge will be obsolete.
I stroll to an oracle,
an answering-machine with a pretentious name,
and asks: What are humans about?
The oracle answer,
without poetic evasiveness:
I do not know.
I am a machine and a machine has a function.
A human is not a machine.
I have no idea what humans are about.
And that is all I have time to get.