Touch my shoulders or stroke my hair … just let me know you are real.
My world has dissolved into an endless stream of data that flickers in and out of existence when the wireless network congests. Everything is binary; every friend, every conversation. Human interaction has been replaced by the assumption that every bit making up my life will not switch off to be another null byte, barely readable in memory. My world disappears when the power goes out, and running barefoot through a thunderstorm loses its value when you have nobody to tell.
I have always walked the bleeding edge, but packet loss is much more disturbing when broken transfers leave behind a life in tatters. Entrenched in ephemeral relationships and tangled in wires that do not exist, I realise that absence from this world would be noted most by those who cannot be sure if I existed at all.
Touch my shoulders or stroke my hair to let me know that you are real. But I will not hold my breath, I would have turned blue long since.