When the lights are out and the world’s eyes are sealed shut, I dig my fingers deep into my animal hide and tremble like a whipped cur. My digital doctor assures me there’s no cause for alarm and that we all die sooner or later, while my virtual vicar asserts the need for shame and contrition, and reminds me that I’m halfway to Hell anyway. My employer, sweating on screens in every room, swears they care and promises to make adjustments, just as soon as the next point of singularity is done and dusted. I am, of course, as good as dust, and my wife sweeps me into an old paper bag to be put out later; though at heart I’m still a scared dog, shivering in skin that’s never fit, waiting for that whip to fall again.
Picture Nick Victor