Author: admin

An Afternoon of Permissions The queue moved like syrup down a cooled plate— each form a hush between fingers, an apology printed on recycled gray. Behind the glass, a woman with lips like quotation marks speaks in numbers— Room 14C, Identity Verification, room of fluorescent hums and panting floor vents, the minister of paper stands…

The turnstile clicks like a polite cough— every entry numbered, borne on a surge of Bluetooth breath and state-sanctioned mascara. We wear our names like borrowed coats, a little tight around the shoulders of who we used to be. Morning is algorithmic now: toast browned by preference, emails preempted by ghost drafts, a warmth in…

**Waiting Room in Chrome** The walls hum softly, like microwaves daydreaming of their past lives as steel, blank, obedient. In the vending machine, a hologram of desire sparkles between options A3 and D7— all salt, no salvation. Outside, a bus sighs over wet gravel as if remembering something important about lithium hearts or evening classes…

**Digital Eucharist** The coffee cools in its paper chalice, sideways on spreadsheets that drip like snowmelt through a vaulted gaze. A conference call murmurs Gregorian; my name appears, flickers, but no one mouths it. Between meetings, I google ‘meaning of fatigue’ and get ads for wearables that count your sighs. A drone whines past— a…

The Elevator Thinks in Spanish Monday slides in like an uncharged phone— blank, jittering with apologies. Lights hum in Esperanto; the copier sighs a paper’s half-formed grief. We queue beneath drone-throated ceilings. Cheryl from Accounts has teeth like glass and a laugh that knows too much. She tells me love is a locked printer jammed…

Every Notification is a Kind of Whisper The fruit bowl glows blue at midnight— not from the screen but the silence between pings, a sort of aching pause no algorithm dares touch. My neighbor’s Alexa murmurs through the plaster like a priestess with dementia, rustling queries for weather, or where did the kids go? You…

*Terms and Conditions* Each morning the inbox fills like a tank— not with water, but with tasks shaped like teeth. We open them, obedient, clicking consent to lives we didn’t mean to draft, checkboxes ticked while yawning over cereal. Outside, a man walks three dogs wearing headphones larger than his astonishments. The sky is buffering….

**Compliance** The form asked for my mother’s eye color— I wrote “opaque or visionary, depending on the war.” No flags were raised. We shuffle between buildings like USB cables looking for ports. Docks where we might click and be told we’re wanted. That’s something. Toast notification: “Your account has been updated to obsolete.” Great. The…

In the elevator mirror a blue halo clings to my forehead—static or grace, I can’t tell. I swipe right through the morning, past a cascade of curated breakfasts, lit like votives in a glass temple. At work, my reflection loads slowly. We speak in sanctioned fonts, bolded where empathy should be. Yesterday, someone cried in…

*Feedback Loop* A silence shaped like elevator jazz hovers between pings—slightly digital, slightly lonely like the last browser tab left open by someone who never says goodbye. Downstairs, a printer stutters like a robot trying to love. Paper jams become confessions: Help, I cannot format myself. Lunch is microwave ballet—neon onions breathe through the plastic…