Tongueless stop-motions, more violent than carnal, they stand in for everything else, and when the lovers step back, they’re as dazed and sated as though they’d fucked for days, the way it feels after alien abduction or a long time-travel, that it’s been years—though anyone watching would say it passed in an instant.
I find it hard to say goodnight. Another tweet will stave the dread. They say a screen is just like light— I reach out, hungry, from my bed. At three, the Facebook works are slow. Despite its flaws, this day can’t die. The others with their touchscreens know What clocks to set their dying by. […]
Emily Gordon lives and writes in New York’s Hudson Valley.