Forget the ink, these days we’re all stained with light
Pixels so small as to be meaningless, branch out in millions of colors to stain our skins
Fifty-seven zombies huddled around cool fires
Brainiacs in head cases grew these things in vats, I suspect, far away from daisies and green cheeses
Is it any wonder that our tools inspire so much unbridled anger when not bridled carefully?
whoa horsy, I mean it!
Well then, sir, how do you wash this light away?
Well, sir, simply turn it off, sir.
Easier easier said than done, sir.