In a paradox of planetary scale, the loneliness of human existence binds us all together.

I wrote on paper today; uncaring, free.
Letting my thoughts pour out the ink of a cyan/blue pen. Watching my brash handwriting—as unique to me as the shape, size, and number of swirls on the surface of my skin, or the nervous, cellular screen at the far back of my eye, or yet the arrangement of the several million sensory buds on my tongue, or the pattern of curves and folds that makes up my ear— take its time to fill the page.

Striking words to cut them off is different from Backspace-ing, I realize. They still remain, just struck through.

There’s an intimacy in turning over the page you’re laying bare your heart on, shielding it (and yourself) from the vulnerability of another glancing at it.
Much different from the Alt+Tab I usually do.