I had said to her that I wanted this, I wanted it right here in the palm of my hand. I wanted to be able to reach through into the screen and move it about, move her face into the right positions, select filters off the menu and tune up the shades. I want to touch in ways that a keyboard and mouse don’t do. I want to be intimate with it. Perhaps this is why I exploded with writing when it was a typewriter, there was a new interface to write into with and yet still accessible, you could do things with this other things you understand.
I sat up, I had been dying for some. I had been writing the last I remembered. The room was dark, but I could tell it wasn’t night. I had to get out of here, I was stifling or they were trying to kill me. I had thought of you as I slid open the window, I had thought of the taste of the barrel of the gun you had placed in my mouth before the lights went out, or I went out. It’s difficult even now to remember who did what, where it was done, when and even why. But I knew this, scrambling my fingers against the sill in the dark looking for some lock or lever, some mechanism to get of this stifling place that I had been dying in for some time, more than yesterday, weeks perhaps, that I had to get out and find you. Not kill you exactly, but find you, maybe even one last kiss goodbye, with a barrel between your teeth instead of mine.