I can’t read right now. The words keep tripping me up, obscuring the meaning of the thoughts they are meant to convey with their clumsy syllables and pronunciations. The trees do a better job of making meaning plain. They create oxygen to boot.
I can’t hear the music. It’s too loud. Obnoxious fingers attack strings and keys, and hot breath rushes over larynxes and reeds, strangling the delicacy of melody. The birds do a better job of singing. They also eat insects. Even water and wind understand the qualities of sound better than quarter notes on a treble clef.
I can’t watch the screens. I don’t believe their colors are true. The people in their images are hollow. I see mouths move and hear the sound of words but they express no thoughts or feelings.
The only thing that makes sense is the eternal growl, slap and whisper of Atlantic waves.