i sit. before the gleaming light of the screen i find myself astonished by the automated movement of my fingers; i watch as all my fingertips move according to a rhythm i cannot listen to while the little white squares with engraved symbols dance so gracefully under them. i sit, i look, the screen is to bright, my sore eyes can't stand such light; i stand move, shake my head and stretch my back... mmmhhh the sound of the muscles cracking, almost frightening, almost addictive becomes the theme song of this parallel time zone in which all of us are left to rest from work and life. i can feel the blood running down my legs, to my toes, to my knees again, to my heart... warm, thick, noisy;again the muscles, again my neck, again my ears... beeeeeeeeep i should sit. i sit, i look at the screen again: blank, a little black line in her intermittent existence defies me, i must write, i must begin, i must continue. There is not much to write about, maybe my blood, my neck, my ears, this light, the sound of the keyboard under the fingers i cannot longer control. maybe about rage as a product of falsity in those who write and dare not say their names, maybe about him, and her, and all of us, maybe about nothing at all: but this is not possible, the little line on the bright screen blinds me and binds me to my chair, so i sit and i hear and i mourn and yearn more than simplistic, mechanic movement of my hands. so i sit, rub my eyes and listen. i sit.