And so here I am, typing on the keyboard. Like many other keyboards. With the keys in an order, as there are many others. Not like the French say, but the outcome, yes the result may well be the same.

And so, here we are arriving with the convenience of legibility. Some of us with the luck and happenstance to decode. The word, lost in the sea. As if bubbles were more important than other bubbles.

And so I came to realize that what I was writing was mine, but once removed. Hosted elsewhere, saved in a cloud, a great anti-bubble in the sky. Permeable, impermeable, semi-permeable. Spelling supported, meaning contrived.

And so there I was, looking at images of people standing on a large tree stump, the tree is gone now. It must have been old. That is a message, without it it is sad, it is the without that hurts. Like the ache of knowing when something is there but you cannot see it. You cannot visit it. Pain both ways. With and without.

And so I thought to myself, perhaps only to make it better. To bandage the hurt. To shield my heart. “It’s not real”. Anything, and everything you have the chance to see through the lens of a digital screen has the potential to be un-real, fabricated, painted, generated, “realized”. The tree is not real. The image is not real. We cannot trust this screen. We cannot trust this time. I don’t trust generated writing.

And so we are jammed between the possible unreality of this rectangle, sacrificing physical truth for a convenient lie. Resting and waiting for us to die.