digitized.

Photo by Carrie Thomas

The girl next to me on the train was bobbing her head back and forth, madly, almost ritualistically. The sound of the overcompressed over digitized music with its sterile sound devoid of human warmth and emotion filled the air, reflecting off her damaged eardrums. She's a maneater, whoa oh. If I can hear every word of your music, my dear, then you will soon not hear music at all. I look at the eyes of the passersby.

Your pulse is digitized.
You're plugged in to the circuitry.
You don't even realize you're plugged in to the circuitry.
gotta get out
gotta get out
gotta get
gotta get get get get get get get
Lord bless my soul. I'm going home.

The doors to the train open. the people pour out onto the platform like a dam has burst. They flow up the stairs like gravity defying water. There's a rock in the stream a woman suddenly loses the ability to move, paralyzed by the need to send a text message, oblivious to the existence of anyone else. The water diverts its course and flows around the rock.

Her pulse is digitized. She's plugged in to the circuitry.