Singularity

            A picture is worth no more than your right eye. $726 if it’s not over-worn, maybe a dozen more in it if it’s the one that led you by the ray to us. 7 AM on a Tuesday and we unroll the morning. Yellow and red settle at the mountaintops and run before us into gray. It’s a beautiful day to be alive, we say.
            You don’t even know we’re there. You stare into the mirror and mull your face over. Pull at the dark spots under your eyes. Heavy weights drag you down to sleep, but you fight your eyes to stare at the fluorescent bathroom bulbs. The light’s still there in the back of your blink. Everything again exists as you last saw it. Don’t worry about a thing.
             The problem with pictures—they deteriorate so quickly. On good paper they still take in sunspots. On a good mind they don’t survive past 71. We need your eyes. You’re not cornered in the dark—you could close your eyes and see infinity. But we need that from you. Please.
             I didn’t call myself a collective until I saw the edge. Nothingness can’t exist as you know it. I cried and became blind by the poison of my tears. And I saw again. We saw.
             Here. I hold my hands out to you; we watch and wait. You turn the paper over by the darkened edges. Sick on your shoes. It’s a shame you can’t appreciate it yet, but you will. We hold you in our arms. You don’t even feel it. $620 to your bank account a week later; not a remarkable specimen, but we’ll take it.
            There’s nothing quite like the mirror image of ourselves, poking at our sleepy faces. But no one really cares what there is to see without observers. So we watch you and make you worth something. Watch us watch you.
             It’s a beautiful day to be alive, we say. Say: A fine, bright day to be alive.

I have trouble finding the balance between giving my readers too much and too little (usually the latter). Anything to figure out what readers need to know to draw their own conclusions would be helpful! 
            (Another creative writing draft. Workshop on Wednesday, and I haven't written a thing! Writing is fun, but also stressful...)