Diary of a Programmer 06

Who would have thought twenty five years ago we would all have written a novel with our thumbs by the end of life, publishing it in bursts of 100 characters? I imagine the micro manuscripts are grasped by the claws of invisible digital pigeons surfing electronic waves and delivered to the publishing houses of lovers, parents, friends, or dumped hopelessly/fully into the ether of a bottomless publishing machine hole that we have named social media. This is the thought I have as I scribble idiotic poetry into a small, light teal Leuchtturm1917 notebook on the S-Bahn, as I watch the eyes of everyone staring at their small black rectangle, their two fattest and shortest digits jiggling back and forth, as I take a mental snapshot and place an old Sunday paper cartoon section filter on it, placing parentheses around the thumbs of everyone to denote the rapidity of movement.