If Your Hand Doesn't Work

I Still Get My News From The Newspaper In The Morning. I Just Have An Affection For Paper, And That's No Secret, I Guess.

My Head Was A Condemned Church With A Ceiling Of Bats, But I Swung From This Dark Mood To Euphoria When I Thought About Leaving.

Every Part Of My Body Felt Electric. My Chest Ached And My Head Throbbed With The Great Terrible Limitless Possibility Of The Morning, And When It Came, The Sky Was Washed White, Everything Was New, And I Hadn't Slept At All.

We Are The Bright New Stars Born Of A Screaming Black Hole, The Nascent Suns Burst From The Darkness, From The Grasping Void Of Space That Folds And Swallows--a Darkness That Would Devour Anyone Not As Strong As We. We Are Oddities, Sideshows, Talk Show Subjects. We Capture Everyone's Imagination.

No One’s Forcing You To Do This. You Willingly Tie Yourself To These Leashes. And You Willingly Become Utterly Socially Autistic. You No Longer Pick Up On Basic Human Communication Clues. You’re At A Table With Three Humans, All Of Whom Are Looking At You And Trying To Talk To You, And You’re Staring At A Screen, Searching For Strangers In Dubai.