Most of us toggle between at least two worlds.
The analog world: the bicycle, ascending the bridge, coasting almost all the rest of the way to the destination—this is a short ride I look longingly to almost every day—people to acknowledge in greeting, coffee, something to read, slowly gathering clouds, someplace to sit, switch glasses, think, blink.
Maybe close my eyes for longer than a blink.
One Mississippi. Seven Mississippi. Seven hundred Mississippi.
And then there’s the digital world: the promise of everything, the delivery of little but pixels, the insistence of the immediate, a world of people you don’t know who don’t know you—some with priorities so at odds with your own as to belong to a separate species on a smaller, backward-spinning planet—and battery anxiety.
Like, right now. One percent battery left! Take a picture! Type as fast as you can! No time to compose the scene; no time to be composed!
There’s no time. The phone is dy…
April 16. 1 mile.