Digit Wails

The walls here are beige brown. The people are painted figures. We stare, silent.

We don't learn by doing but by staring, and we don't learn very well.

We weren't meant to stare all day. We need a treadmill or we'll wither away.

We cry with our fingers. Loud fingers are angry spirits. We tickle the scroll bar in search of love.

The man with shortcuts is an angry man, his keystrokes more ambitious, he wants to use less so he can do more. The shortcut man scares the scrolling, clicking man. Those who master shortcuts become king.

Outside they breath oxygen. It makes us afraid, desperate for electricity again. We need to be on and off and on and again, because we are digits ourselves, processing signals to serve the end user. Our job is to be the current. The process is always being written, for the end user. We wish we could ask him if he likes it. If he doesn't like it we are aborted.

We no longer talk. Our fingers become smaller, hands like pin pricks, we apprehend it by staring. We see everything but feel nothing.