The sharp rasp of dropped connections, ordinary chaos; echoes linger in the air like the pretentious scraps of half-chewed nonsense. Abstract poetry of missed messages resounds.
"It's not you, it's the signal," they said, exchanging glances like flickering pixels on a dying screen.
Your words are mere whispers, caught in the static flow between data streams.
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Circuitry can’t repent for lost time, penance drips off other people's tongues.
Relinquish hope—an exercise in multiscreen life gone phantasmagorical.
For more on the irony of existence, visit The Vapor Trail.