We cannot veer off the given track. There is little, if any, lateral movement. Our eyes are right here, a predator’s radius, a lazy predator’s two-dimensional rope. No slack but for the screen we inhabit, no handhold but the pecking, pecking, pecking. We are schooled in it from a young age. Reschooled=regurgitate.

The constant chatter, chainsaw running at breakneck speed. Little Neck! Ping, ping! Off another bumper! A click, a peck, the constant chatter. Boxes on wheels. Boxed in. Hemmed in. Peck, peck. Chatter. Two trains passing, entrained. The pecking, the chatter, click-clacking of the train, wheels under boxes, entrained.
Point north if you can? Spread the vision? And bring down the swift scent of centuries?

Peck, peck. Chatter and chainsaws. Breakneck speed. An information superhighway, eh? Paralysis…