Modern times. When I touch the screen it's gluey. My fingerprint vanishes before my eyes. A thousand sites beckon my isolation. The mouse is brainless and blind. Second times, when I smudge the dream it's choosy. My opinions vanish, together with lies. A thousand bytes make up relations. The cursor is losing it's mind. Foreign chimes when I budge the button called Movie, my memories varnished by melodies. A thousand rights kick into motion. The volume is kind. July, which I reach so easy. My self taps Logoff and glides towards outside's green emotions, fog and sunlight for permanent signs.