Touch
on. Weather maps, impulsive snaps, mindbending apps. I hold the universe in my
palm. Electrical onions, eternal origins, everyone’s opinions. But who am I?
Conversations in a cloud. There’s one in every crowd. Images of flowers,
touching. Streets stream with downloaded heads. But if touch is lost, what then?
The world closed down, overnight. The bad dream where I forget all my lines at
rehearsal. A million redundant oblongs. Streets of upright heads. How proud the
trees of March. My screensaver of the Fitzroy Gardens, vanished. Out of touch
and out of my mind. Somewhat touched in the head.
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