Every Wednesday I emerge into the hollow darkness of my living room. All the lights are off, have to make my way by touch and memory. My roommate sleeps in the living room-all I can hear are his soft snores, maybe the rustle of my heavy-footed cats.
I'm headed for here, for my metacortex, my window. I can see it dimly in the corner, all our tools' lights flicker like a constellation. And then my monitor goes white, like a sun, just for me.
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