Your phone in one hand a chicken burger in the other.

You transcend far past the perimeters of your sedentary life style, you leer, uninvited but still welcomed into the spectacle they're making. Your laughter and lust and anger all bounce off the shrieking screen of your machine. They're running and melding through the reeling tunnel of your mind. It's inundating and over-saturating, but the bull stampedes forward. He's driven only by twitching, impatient digits. Your eyes have unfocused, but he doesn't mind, you're still there,     it's  dark out now. 

You watch the sullen night sky, transfixed as your fingers move with hurried shame to quiet the machine. You sit there in the dark,  fiddling  with  the  knob  of  your  lamp  until  it  

turns on.

You've shed light on the stillness of your material palace, all you feel is a staunch dread. You can see a grease stain reflecting cruelly off the blacked out glass of your machine. So you       toss it away with a sneer.           

It sits at the end of your bed, catching the light and beckoning you like a whore. 

The stain was from the flesh you ate, you haven't thrown the wrapper out yet. It sits innocently on your desk, marred with small brandings, crumpled,                                                                                                 

                                                                                dismissed in your feverish ritual.