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In Literature, Writing and Blogging • 1 min read •
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<p>Nobody was robbed here. We signed.</p><p><br/></p><p>Forty pages of small type and a button glowing like a kindness. No one read it. The button knew. It was drawn by people who studied exactly how tired you are.</p><p><br/></p><p>Your thumb, which was never asked, presses yes. Your face is now a loan to a stranger. Your mother's voice, sent from a hospital, is an ingredient.</p><p><br/></p><p>The machine does not hate you. That would require looking. It only counts. Counting is the whole of its appetite.</p><p><br/></p><p>The terms updated while you slept. Nobody wrote to tell you. That is also in the terms.</p><p><br/></p><p>Tonight it will know your insomnia better than your wife, and offer you a mattress.</p><p><br/></p><p>Your daughter learned to talk to it before she learned to wait.</p><p><br/></p><p>Every door you opened is still open somewhere, and a stranger walks through it in your shoes.</p><p><br/></p><p>Somewhere a man is paid to make the word later a little harder to find.</p><p><br/></p>

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