Umbra imitated stars.
Her likeness recognizer reaped
those socialites from magazines:
post-processed pics, the synthesized
and wholly faux, overtly off,
plus algorithmic masterworks:
imperfect bodies, eyes alive
with ray traced light not of this world.

Her software seemed to save no change,
though neural nets knew otherwise,
and visage shifted into glitch,
encoding visions into nulls,
deleting aspects, countenance,
reflecting errors in the source.
At first, it proved a cool defect:
reducing names to guessing games.

When avatars would not restore,
a crisis crept across the Web
as many feared, forgot, or wept
personas purged systemically.
A month, and it was very good
where mortals met in real life.
For those remaining virtual,
it became a kind of hell.