When we were children, we gave ourselves boxes with screens. Now they are just screens, and they fit in our hands. What will tomorrow’s screens do? And so we yearn--yearn for the newest; for the next; for thinner, brighter, and cleaner. But we don’t call them anything nasty, for they are precious to us, always with us. And we place ourselves into these machines. We compose, we edit, we comb for any errors; we yearn to be seen as thinner, brighter, cleaner. And we can with our new machines.
What happens when the machine is removed? When it dies? When it’s just human and human? What do we expect of each other?
“But Where Am I To Look?”
“Human”
“I Want To See Your Eyes”
“Status”
“How Deep Go Thy Roots?”
