On my friend's TV the little men kick futballs. The screen is thick and grainy. My stylus does not stop the tiny men or their antics. Even jabbing the goalies produces no effect.
At lunch, the menus are on paper. Behind the facade of lamination, nothing moves. Even held up to the light, no pixels become visible. The waitress, like the television, does not respond to input. There is no place to click her that makes her bring Coke.
Motion drifts further and I'm returned to the softly glowing rectangles. The light of someplace else shines through them. Better dreams than these are waiting.
















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