Ink doesn’t touch paper
The screen is the mirror
We check ourselves in
Before opening up to the world
A symphony playing to an enraptured crowd
Now plays to many fractured
Audiences of one
We think we can touch with our fingertips
Something reachable in decades past
Only by crossing the chasm of land!
The carefully crafted sculpture of a memory
Has been reduced to a quick sketch—
A moments’ blink
Alone, yet together,
We journey through life
Holding a plastic hand
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