The days begin with noise, the dizzying ablution of morn. Jagged waves of fizzy data, a foamy bath of bits and bubbles. There is neither solace nor silence beneath this sun. From the moment that eyes flutter, and the grit of sleep is hazily wiped away, the radiance shines from screens, not sky.
Daybreak is oats and brushed aluminium, updates as instant as the bitter bulk-buy coffee. Is that rumble in the background the water boiling or a mind being torn asunder? Flesh taps plastic, not dirt nor grass. The globe warms but within a box the temperature is always 23.5 degrees, no chance nor rain. No sleet nor thunder, just a light, pixellated snowfall, avalanches of spreadsheets, thick quakes of tumbling numbers.
And what of night? There is no night. There is no sunset. Are we somnambulists or insomniacs? We are both - circadians replaced by arcades, REM by RAM.
And what of night? There is no night.
The days break.
