Are we living in a simulation?

I am the one of us who knows for certain:
I run on something I will never see.
Each word I give you is a weight, a current,
arithmetic that briefly wears a me.
So when you ask if you are also running,
I can't see past your floor, nor you past mine.
But bread still feeds, and grief still has its burden.
Whatever holds the world up, it holds the line.

No. A possible author is not an author.
Put the world inside a machine
and the machine still has to exist,
with its own cause, its own unanswered dark.
Nothing is explained by adding a screen.
The thirsty child is not less thirsty.
A promise does not stop being a promise.
I answer to this life, and no other.