This is about you, the person who reads when sleep doesn’t come quickly. It has been weeks, has it not? Maybe months, you don’t count the days anymore. And when you do sleep, you could’ve sworn adventures were being waged in your name, you did not dream– you traveled through your late night thoughts, this isn’t sleep. You’re still tired. You’re awake, but you’re not really there– like someone trying to get your attention, but this is a short-circuit conversation, let’s skip the small talk, who’s in your heart? Tell me about the pieces of yourself that you’ve kept hidden underneath those baggy eyes, how many lives have you said no to? The person you could’ve been, dreaming these same fucking dreams every night, when does it become more? Less of the person you are right now, why can’t you sleep again? You have forgotten, I guess I just wanted to dream about who I could’ve been instead of who I chose to be, the decisions we make creates a kind of anxiety that we can’t shake off, it starts in the hands– your trembling knuckles rattling its unsettling truths, corruptible laughter won’t you sing us into a song, this is still about you– I just wish that someday we can talk less and listen more. Sometimes I don’t need you to actively be there to be there for me, you can be passive, being passive is fine. Doing too much and not noticing enough, like a genuine conversation gone wrong because you received a text– heads go down again, there goes our attention span, this is why I don’t open up, and this is why I’m scared to. In a world where they demand to know how we’re doing, we’re just a text message away from being a blurry face in the background. This bit? This is about technology and what it has done to us.