Ironically, given the medium of this text, I spend far too much time on the computer.

My computer is full of fascinating facts, tidbits of trivia, conspiracies and minor news items, most of which are probably not entirely true (or entirely not true). Each one seems to lead to another, like an infinite treasure hunt, like Somerset in Seven says: “even the most promising clues usually lead only to other clues.” You could spend an eternity hunting the end of this ream of enthralling nonsense. I don’t want to, any more.

My computer is full of morons who I can only assume work desperately hard to prove to me how unintelligent they are. They are not only infuriating, they use the anonymity of the internet as a wall from behind which they can throw their ammunition at me. This same wall prevents them from seeing who I am. I’m tired of explaining who I am; I’m tired of that wall. I don’t want to argue with them any more.

In a little corner of my computer is a group of my friends. They don’t belong in my computer. They belong in my arms, in my lounge, in my eyesight, in my local pub. I hope to rescue them one day.

My computer is my only means to talk to my girlfriend. It likes to tease me, breaking and slowing down and aggrivating us both every other night. I want to hold her, and kiss her, and look into her eyes as I talk to her, and see her smile. My computer is the life support machine that I want to destroy for being the physical manifestation of our distance but which I can’t, because it’s all that keeps us together.

My garden is full of pretty flowers. I like to take photographs of them.

The world is full of pretty people. I like to make memories of them.

I’d like to make a memory of you. I’ll see you around.