Auctioning Time

There was far too much waiting involved. Delete partition. Add. Format. Serious waiting. An entire day for it to ask me what time zone I occupied. And after that. Surprise. Waiting some more. When the box that contains my soul was finally functional again I counted the fonts. Realizing I had forgotten to save the ones I wanted. I noted the songs that were left. And studied the question mark in device manager that insisted I had forgotten something I'd done a thousand times before.

It's not as though there was something wrong. Just that right had gone lax.

If there is one thing technology has taught me it's to make backups. Because nothing is permanent.

I do better with pipes than I do people. I understand machines. Am lost in skin. I make up stories because the words are waiting. And we are gone.

I am yellow. I am brick. I am the curtain in front of and the microphone between. Myself and the wizard. Omnipotent and powerless.

Like everyone. I was born blind. And deaf. And mute. And nothing about that has changed except how loudly I'm willing to scream.

I am sold to the highest bidder. Purchased by virtue of want. Alone in this fairy tale of touch. As calm as an hourglass letting each minute disperse in a mass suicide of moments.