At first I thought it was the screen: its glow embeds in your eyes, numbs your vision, warming your brain to a soft buttery spread only later to gel, caking your cranium with useless residual. But, no, it was not the screen. So I thought next, maybe the desk and chair. Spreading out before you a kingdom's worth of shrugged off, passed over trivialities to rule over from your wheeled, anonymous, adjustable office throne, a Bic Round Stic, your scepter. But it wasn't this, either. Although the sitting there, propped in front of the monitor didn't help. In the end it was me--the inevitable bend in the path I soldiered on, that path that affords such double 17-inch kingly views as this. As pointless the navigation, as mindless the destination.
