When I’m tired.

I look on the oaks that line the road. They stand so, sandwiched in by toxic stone. Their roots all bathed in oil and their acorns dropped in the path of car tires; I can’t think of something more awkward, I can’t imagine feeling so cordoned. Then I remember I’m surrounded by a faint electric hum. Bathed in it daily. My brain is made on fire by social online industry, and I check it with some small window into everything that I carry, well, everywhere. All the time. Look, it even says I’ve arrived at home. You know, so that I know I’m actually… Home. I want to sleep, I’m tired. I look out the window, and then look down at my phone.

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