Spell Czech

Nick Drakes “Which Will” playing from the shitty little speakers attached to the computer that owns me.

I do not own it, it owns me. This little machine should be called a “Crackintosh”, you get addicted to its little “sleeping” orb that pulses white after you close the lid.

The other night, two nights ago now, I took the machine, put it in its case (it even has it’s own custom case) and forced myself not to open it again until morning. I then proceeded to read words printed in ink on real paper.

Paper made from trees, from forests, from leaves.

Leave me alone, little machine, your world is too cold and impersonal. I need real, flesh and blood interaction, not this disconnected non-reality. I need the imperfections of speech.

I need more than this spell czeched wordl.


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