Electric circuit breaker dawn

I am a child of my time, a child of this here interweb. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I've accepted my hereness and thisness as a gift, even one that may be taken from me at the slightest breeze. I am not original at cringing at how unsustainable we have become, but what glorious light our unsustainably burning candle casts! What free spirit of the 60s, what Beat poet could access so much human mind as we can now? Randomly browsing for hours on end, you and I come in direct head-to-head contact with a cloud of people, each a tiny droplet, but enough to coat our skins in water. And after a short break to eat something, perchance to take a rest from all this unorthodox learning, we plunge back into colour, into flashing lights and flaring tempers, into brave religious piety, into edge-shattering musical riffs, into sober, judgemental faces blinking at the pyres burning just out beyond the next hill, into inhospitable landscapes, into reams of HTML code, into entertainment and introversion, propaganda and postmodernism, into the disturbed minds of allegedly libertarian time travellers. This place here and now is a crowded subway, but nobody is afraid to approach anyone else and ask for their life story.

Thought before I sleep: "no book ever hammered the imagination in quite the way that beeping tones and flashing lights do."