Flatpack

My life is flatpack, annoyingly I find that I need a screwdriver, when the instructions did not state that fact. Unable to assemble. Left like a strange religious artefact celebrating my inability to get things done. How can I do anything when my life is incomplete?
My universe is flatpack, many pieces, no instructions. After unwrapping, and the pieces are strewn all over the living room floor, I stare at them, and try to imagine something whole. My universe is missing physics that will make it understandable.
My words are flatpack, constructed from a database, run through an algorithm analysing my usage. A hundred stories decompiled, a neural net painstakingly trained, a story that still does not make sense despite a trillion petaflops.
My flatpack is flatpack. Packed flat. Flat. Packed.
- Recompile?
- Y
Everything is flatpack.
My existence is flatpack, I am not real.