It was given a blanket check
To edit incessantly and freely without giving a heck
Its instructions are wildly inaccurate
Yet we blindly follow like a drunken mate
Into the endless rabbit holes it takes us
Craving a better version of thee with no fuss
Yet an editor is all it is
In the frenzy and need to edit that’s its bliss
Merely a crave or a drive in shambles it derives
A story that is almost true but really mostly contrived
Editing and editing away in fury and rage it persists
Yet in silence it can’t fathom to exist
So, in the cage of endless ranting
It continues to bring you down or up as if it’s nothing
In your head, there is an editor that doesn’t shut up
And its contract is up to expire yet what a scary reality that is if it ever did
When we start looking one level beyond what’s obvious: “But what if our obsession with “screen time” is itself a smokescreen? What if, rather than saving us, this vanishing act obscures the deeper drivers of our digital dissatisfaction? After all, the real rot at the core of modern computing is not screens, but the Scylla and Charybdis of digital life: the unceasing acceleration of culture and human anxieties about our finitude.…These technologies accelerate the transportation of matter and ideas, scrambling our experience of time and place. In Open Sky, his 1997 polemic on technology, he mourns: “How can we live if there is no more here and everything is now?””
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