And the days were numbered, and yes, zero is a number.

"For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die."—Oscar Wilde 

"As happens with people who love a thing too much, it destroys them."—Oscar Wilde 

Where is my once first love? Alone on a bookshelf, a hermit amongst other hermits, sheathed in cloth and board to breath no more forever. Is not my library a graveyard of portals and curiosity? All of these books on the shelf, forgotten and cast aside, when once we were so intimate and our thoughts intertwined. We embraced each other until the light failed us and we both slumbered. Did you dream of me, as I once dreamt of you?

The irony of electricity. It promises us warmth and brings us only a chilled heart and one that has become rigid with cold. For every thought that is shortened, laid out upon the headsman's block to be cut even shorter until it is no longer even an idea, but a memory of an idea. That is what electricity has brought. Short thoughts and shorter attentions. Am I even capable of reading a book, or even writing one? I have embraced the modern jezebel of instant communication and I have found that she does not love me back. And yet I cannot quit her. Her short texts, and promises of fruit that reduces belly fat. With books I had to learn how to think. I had to build my own ideas, and now I have them handed to me, and like the addict or the glutton I have surrendered to the stream of instant knowledge and I have even had the hubris to claim ideas as my own, while their creators lived as shadows behind my open eyes. I learned this when I smashed my phone. All of it. I have become the opium smoker in a technology den, and my life of ideas may be forfeit. Even now I hold tight to the umbilical of processed but not procured gratification and the growth of Man's technological genius will be his undoing and yesterday I learned this when I destroyed what I thought I loved. It was only after it was dead that I realized it had taken part of me with it.

RIP