A writer struggling with an idea for an article enters a café that’s full to capacity. The song of the year, before it is replaced, squeals out of unseen speakers overhead. I make my way towards a lounge area where other people congregate, all just as homeless and connected as I am. Bodies are hunched over laptops, their brains exuding electrical exile. Various white battery charger cords as long parasitic worms are fed into the walls, leaving spaghetti patterns on the floor, each socket stuffed and sucked. My laptop is dying. I can feel the hollowness and fear in my marrow.
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