I’m in a erie area where hands to necks belong to magazines with low batteries waiting to fall, and the dust I own screams from the stomach of “The All” with its wit inside a loosely tied navy knot. Dinosaur teas going bananas over rays of Vietnamese cups of wifi that will only say bye-bye eat good karma in hopes of receiving a green cross at the wall of pandas. While the irony in silicone is that we’ve stumbled more than some in tech, and our goal is far fetched with a bad case of strep throat waiting to be pet with vertigo spells.
With my tongue to concrete, and callus to the brain – I freeze.
What are you doing?