I should read something important by David Foster Wallace and the richness of the literature cut like ballads in between eye-lids that are sore from this computer screen.
But there is Twitter and I haven’t changed my facebook status in half an hour.
What is this pixel life?
I long for a pixie life. Free of screens and away from the need to connect or achieve in micro intervals, a dream or rare new insight that, like crack, infiltrates the veins and becomes a part of me.
It is desperate to admit I am dependent on this shit and our need sustains hours of evolution that could be devolved into sleep. The better to rest and not to need and she…
she never comes online.
Diary of an Unborn Writer 