We roam in a world of abstracted bits, trading in numbers, separated from the atoms by a screen of enticements always saying the same thing: Look away, look away.
The house that we used to live in is now soaked in the rains, unprotected by paint that is no longer maintained. The owners knew better, but they now lack the means to keep it up, deprived of income by the disruption of an elite cadre of bit traders, playing on the delight that children feel when shown a display of dancing colors.
Out here on the porch, the vibrance has been unenhanced. The colors of the sunlight leave us uninspired, morose, dejected.
We remember something that was once worth striving for, and struggle to recall it.
