asthmatic machine / death of the artisan

the computer is whirling and whistling. It sounds as if it’s breathing. As if it’s alive.

Hundreds of tiny squares stare at me. I move figures from one box to another, a formula here, drop down options. Moving units. This triggers something somewhere.
It’s Newtonian.

Maybe in Florida?
Maybe in Tangiers? Something happens, something pops up on a strangers screen?

Links in invisible chains. A Möbius strip.

The world is based on movement, it expands. People need their numbers, they need to count the units. There is no end product just more things people push and process.

The artisan is dead
replaced by asthmatic machines.

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