Exformation

There was a note on his desk that read 'Late'. It was written in stodgy red felt tip, double-underlined so he assumed it was serious, but they'd used a post-it hastily grabbed from the pile beside his monitor. Surely if this was a really serious matter they'd have written a formal letter or, at least, just emailed. No, this move, passing by his desk, noticing he wasn't present, but, moreso, investigating to make sure he wasn't in the break room or the kitchen, and then returning to leave a statement like this, a confirmation that - yes - his absence had been acknowledged, this was a more concerning degree of seriousness. It was passive aggressive.
    He balled up the note in his hand but didn't want to throw it away, he wanted whoever wrote it to know that it had been read, and it had not been tolerated. So, he placed the little scrunch onto his desk, nearest to the aisle, and slumped into his booth.
    Sure, he thought, he had been late, he'd been late every single day this week, but that was one week out of hundreds, and he'd had problems with the trains. Admittedly he'd sauntered to the station quite lackadasically, but they weren't to know that, he'd sent a text ahead to say that there were delays and he'd be in by half past.
    He called down to the reception desk, Julian answered.
    "Good morning, reception."
    "Hi Julian, did you get my text this morning?"
    "Um..."
    "About the train delays."
    "Oh, that, yes. Yes."
    "And did you let anyone know about it?"
    "Er," the sound of a biro hollow tapping on the side of pouting cheek, "I don't think so, nobody asked."
    "Ok."
    He hung up, irritated that his boss hadn't thought to call in with reception for any news of his arrival time. He sneered, shook his head, opened his emails, expecting some sort of continuation of the debacle, but there was nothing. Just a few spam messages and a request for him to proof some copy.
    Frustrated he picked up the stained coffee cup that the cleaner had ignored, and trudged to the kitchen.
    Michael was in there talking to Hattie, they were giggling over the personal ads in the free paper, but their shared chuckle halted almost immediately when he walked in and switched the kettle on, its boil erupting the cosy, quiet of the small sterile room.
    Michael folded up the paper, "Well, I'll leave you guys to it."
    He watched him slip out of the door, giving one last lingering look to Hattie before he left. She was staring down at the tabletop, at her own empty cup, waiting for something that he couldn't quite fathom.
    "Well, I'm having a shit day," he announced.
    After an uncomfortable silence the kettle clicked off, he poured his tea and grabbed the milk from the fridge, giving it a quick sniff before adding it to his brew.
    She set her cup down with an audible clink.
    "Sometimes, y'know," he shook his head, weighing his thoughts and curling his lip, "I just want to walk into that big office, go up to her and just, I don't know, give her a piece of my mind. Don't you?"
    She sighed, "Yeah."
    "What?" He could tell she wasn't really paying attention, her eyes seem fixed on a point on the floor, but there was nothing there, nothing at all. He shrugged to himself, glancing around the room, his eyes lost, before he deflated and finally leant over to her; "What's wrong with you?"
    She looked up at him, her brow furrowed, confused.
    "Didn't you get my note?"

The Opposite Of Omniscience

On the day he was born he arrived into the world screaming.  Everyone in the delivery room clutched their hands to their ears to try to dull the shrieking noise, as did everyone in the hall, as did everyone in the hospital, as did everyone in the town and the county and the country and on the planet.

                It took a while for everyone to adjust, and a little longer for everyone to realise precisely what was going on.  However it quickly became clear that absolutely everyone on the planet had an innate awareness of what little Gary was doing.  When he took those first steps everyone knew, when he said his first word everyone knew.

                But the shared consciousness wasn't invasive, more like something you could dip in and out of at will, but major events in Gary's life had a greater prominence than average occurrences.  For instance, the first time Gary cut himself by accident the howling wall of upset caused a number of traffic accidents and for Spain to miss an all important penalty in the world cup final.

                It was, for the population of Earth, primarily up to them how much they knew about Gary.  To begin with this mass telepathy was a startling new intrusion upon their thoughts, but it quickly became background noise.  Finally, most people were able to filter things, a casual thought would give you a quick update such as Gary's brushing his teeth, but prolonged concentration would allow you to get right into Gary's immediate internal thoughts.

                People quickly allowed Gary to become part of their daily lives, to begin with there was a certain degree of celebrity afforded to him, but his mother wasn't so keen on the idea and, with the support of some government officials and a handful of psychologists, convinced the world to just let Gary be.  Indeed, growing up knowing that everyone knows what you're doing might make you a little paranoid.

                It couldn't be helped though, the first time Gary tried to masturbate he could hear all manner of laddish woops and cheers coming from the street outside, which put him right off.  He found he was never chosen to answer questions in class, instead his teachers would just dismiss his hand and say "No Gary, that's wrong."  Or in P.E. he'd never get passed the ball because, as one team-mate told him; "Everyone knows who you'll pass it to."

                Gary, who had managed to remain largely oblivious to his unique predicament, just thought that people didn't like him.

                To some extent this was true, a lot of people - often those more susceptible, and ultimately who struggled to block Gary out - very strongly felt that Gary was a terrible burden on their lives, his meaningless thoughts constantly clogging up their precious brainwaves twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.  Gary's mother would always open his post and carefully dispose of any hate mail, whilst the local police had a specific unit tasked with watching Gary - without Gary noticing - in case somebody tried to assassinate him.

                This had peculiar advantages, because the first time someone tried to bully Gary they found themselves at the mercy of five armed police officers.

                But then there were people who loved Gary, who if he thought about something he wanted it would suddenly arrive in the mail the next day, and then, strangely, everyone at school would be extra nice to him in the hopes of coming around to play on the brand new games console he hadn't told anyone he'd just received.

On his eighteenth birthday his mother finally decided it was time to tell Gary about his gift.  Managing, and hiding, the out-pouring of love and hate, or even indifference, towards her son had become practically impossible and Gary himself was growing increasingly more anxious, yet remained unable to put the pieces of the puzzle together to form the complete picture.

                So it was that Gary found out that everybody knew, or at least could know, what he was doing or thinking at any given time.

                "Everybody?" Gary asked, his face scrunched up in bafflement, a large shiny '18 today!' badge pinned to his shirt glinting in the light.

                "Yes Gary, everybody."

                "Even people who don't speak English?"

                "Yes Gary."

                "But how do they know what I'm thinking?  I think in English."

                "Well, you see, this is the wonderful thing about your gift Gary, it showed us that human thoughts are merely translated into language by our brain, but they exist in a sort of non-descript electro-chemical form that anyone, of any language, could perhaps interpret."

                Gary was confused as to why his mother had become so excited by this, but little did he know that his mother found the scientist who had explained all this to her to be very attractive and they had discussed this recently after they had made love for the first time.

                "We've studied people's brains and animals brains and -"

                "Animals can hear me too?" Gary squeaked with alarm.

                "Yes.  We've studied their brains and scientists think we might be able to translate animal thoughts into human language and vice versa, wouldn't that be amazing?"

                "Wait, but, people know when I'm eating my tea or going for a walk or playing with mysel- with my toys."

                His mother looked sheepish, she explained everything to him as best she could, though despite sleeping with a scientist she wasn't much for science.

                "So people can watch my dreams?  They can read my mind?  They can hear my desires?" Gary wasn't waiting for answers, he was listing off every thought that popped into his head and then; "It's not even worth me asking is it -" I mean I can just think these questions and you'll hear them, right?

                "Yes Gary," his mother said, then clapped a hand to her lips, having never allowed herself to respond directly to his telepathy for eighteen years she was surprised at how quickly, now the confession had been made, that she had broken her own ruling.

Gary's life changed considerably, at first he was too scared to go outside, staying in his room, worrying.  But he soon came to realise that no matter where he was and no matter what he did people would still be able to know and that it was irrelevant if he spent his life wallowing in his own bed or running around make a fool of himself.

                However despite optimistically psyching himself up, the actual act of being out in the world knowing that everybody knows everything you are doing and thinking was intimidating, and suddenly things he had taken for granted began to make sense to him.

                For instance, Gary now realised why his caramel latte was always ready for him to take away the moment he stepped into the coffee shop.  He also realised why his bank refused to let him have a cash card and he had to always take out his money in person, and he realised why Judy Miller hadn't wanted to have a second date with him after he had thought about her quite vividly that one evening.

                He was confused, he was unsure if perhaps his own thoughts were more depraved than any one else's, he thought he might ask Mel, at which point his phone rang.

                "Trust me, you're not more depraved than anyone else," was the first thing Mel said when Gary answered.

                "Um, thanks."

                "I just think it's odd that people can be so judgmental, I mean, we all think weird shit."

                I guess people find it offensive because it's someone else's weird shit.

                "Exactly."

                "What?"

                "I was agreeing with you."

                "But I... oh, yes... Could you do me a favour Mel..."

                "Could I not respond to things you haven't said out loud?"

                "Yes."

                "Don't worry, I just guessed that was what you were going to say that time."

                "Thank you."

Later that day Gary was wondering about the nature of his friendship with Mel, and ultimately reasoned that she respected his absolute honesty, whether intentional or otherwise.  Gary could never censor his thoughts, things just occurred and people would read them, and he was never a cruel or malicious person, the intent of everything that came to Gary's mind was founded in positivity.

                Naturally, there were sometimes the fleeting shrieks of lunacy that bore no genuine resemblance to his actual feelings and merely popped into his brain as a by-product of the world that surrounded him.  These thoughts would be dismissed by Gary as quickly as they arrived, therefore nobody eavesdropping on his mind could surely misconstrue them for his actual opinion.

                Prior to the present, despite whatever Gary may have said aloud, Mel would always know what Gary genuinely thought and Mel must have respected Gary's honest opinion more so than anything else.  This made Gary realise that perhaps the Gary he chose to present to the world wasn't perhaps the best Gary he could be?  Maybe his previously paranoid perception of a socially acceptable person was not entirely true to himself.

                Gary made a vow, from this day forward, to not amend or adjust his opinions to cater towards a self-imposed worry that someone might disagree a little, that those repressed desires to be a little sillier, to dance to the music, to climb the tree, to splash in the puddle and kick up the leaves, to share his honest perspective and not be afraid to debate and challenge his friends, or stand up for strangers. 

Beyond the positive experiments that Gary's ability had brought about, there was interest from the military as to how Gary could be weaponised.  Various organisations had been training agents in ignorance, conditioning them to be able to filter out all thought bar their objective, with the idea that Gary could be kidnapped and tortured, and the ensuing pain signal sent out to the entire world would cause enough of a distraction for an agent - if he were unable to sense Gary - to perform some covert task without hindrance.

                Unfortunately without actually kidnapping and torturing Gary their hypotheses could never be tested, and if Gary were to be kidnapped the entire world would know about it instantly.  (None of this had occurred to military until long after millions of pounds of research and development had already been conducted).

                To some extent, outside of those that despised him, this had granted Gary a level of invulnerability.  He was once stopped on a street late at night by a mugger who himself was so emotionally overwhelmed by Gary's sense of fear that he had a panic attack and Gary had to take him to the hospital. 

Over time Gary began to realise the true potential of his ability, it had, up until this point, always seemed like the cruellest and most pointless of gifts.  He had decided to go on holiday with his friend Mel, and having finally arrived in Almalfi they headed to a café in the square and were perusing the menu.

                The waiter had approached, and, as far as Mel was concerned, he had greeted Gary with warmth and familiarity, noting down his order and then turning, expectantly to Mel, who stumbled through some broken Italian, at which the waiter shrugged, turning expectantly to Gary who repeated Mel's order in the same pidgin language, but this time the waiter nodded and noted Mel's request.  The waiter said something, laughed and placed a friendly hand on Gary's shoulder, to which Gary grinned and nodded.

                Once the waiter had gone back inside the café, Mel turned to her friend and whispered; "What did  he say?"

                "I don't know," Gary confessed.

                "But, what was all of that?" Mel asked, gesturing a little back and forth with her finger.

                "He must have read my mind."

                "But you don't speak Italian."

                "I know, but I don't think our waiter realises that."

                "What do you mean?"

                Gary explained to Mel what he had understood from his mother, and her partner Karen - the scientist, about thoughts not having any language and instead being an abstract signal that is translated by our minds into thoughts as we perceive them.  At the purest level, a thought is the same in everyone's mind, but we all adapt our thoughts to suit however we communicate, be that into English, Italian, Dutch, Sign, Morse code, binary, hieroglyphics, meowing, whatever.  If all thought was expelled and received un-translated then every creature on the planet would be able to understand one another.

                Mel, despite knowing Gary - she hoped - better than anyone else, wasn't entirely convinced.  Despite the fact that Gary would never, perhaps could never, lie to her, she sometimes suspected that Gary could be misinformed.  In this instance she was doubtful and wanted to somehow test Gary's ability.

                Looking around she noticed a cat sat on a second floor window across the street.

                "Ok, see that cat over there, don't say anything out loud, but I want you to convince it to come over here and, um, jump up onto the table."

                Gary, enjoying a moment of showmanship, cracked his knuckles and turned towards the lazy cat licking its paws.

                Almost immediately the cat looked up from its wash and tried to follow the sound it heard as if a fly were buzzing around its head.  It then proceeded to hop back inside the room behind it and was gone from view.

                Mel and Gary waited, but the cat did not reappear.

                Their waiter did though, placing the coffees they had ordered down in front of them and saying something in Italian to Gary.

                Sorry, I don't speak Italian, Gary thought.

                The waiter was taken aback, looked suspiciously around and then, in a slower voice said; "But, er, we were speaking... the first time..."

                Yes, Gary thought, You're able to read my thoughts.

                The Italian waiter, as if trained in cliché, made the sign of the cross and returned to the kitchen muttering something incomprehensibly to himself.

                Mel laughed, shaking her head, when suddenly a cat leapt up onto their table and a elderly woman - who had hurried across the road after it - apologetically picked it up and carried it back to her flat, chastising it and wagging her finger.

                "Poor thing," Mel grinned.

                Gary smiled, "The waiter or the cat?" 

For the rest of their holiday Gary was able to use his projected telepathy to allow people to understand him, despite having no knowledge of the language.  Though Gary could not understand when others replied in Italian, he was able to communicate effectively enough, letting them know - with varying reactions - that he could not speak the language, but they could hear his thoughts.  Some of them, like the waiter, were alarmed by this, whilst others felt a surge of understanding, having heard about Gary before, but never expecting to actually meet him.

                Gary began to realise that, even though he was unable to always understand others, there was something comforting about being able to, at the very least, let people know what you're thinking regardless of any other barrier that may be attempting to hinder understanding.  He started to think that he should, having been able to let everyone know what's going on in his mind for his entire life, begin to take an interest in what's going inside other people's.

                Once he returned home he enrolled in various language classes, he didn't just limit himself to spoken language, but started learning Sign and Braille.  He was fortunate and found he had a natural aptitude for language, it helped that his teachers would listen to his thoughts and could, with great ease, see where Gary was struggling and help him overcome those hurdles.

                But conversely, Gary, as he began to work with those deprived of various senses, started to discover a new, and peculiar, side to his powers.  Gary was able to communicate the thought language of sound or sight to those who lacked either or both.  He was able to project a hitherto unknown concept towards them, as opposed to being like someone attempting to explain hearing or sight to a congenitally deaf or blind person, it was an entirely realised representation, in fact, through Gary a deaf or blind person could experience the world in a way that their condition denied them.

                And with this, Gary began to listen more, so often had he become consumed by his own thoughts, and ultimately burdened the world with a potentially constant stream of his paranoid, self-obsessed witterings that it was a new and surprising experience for him to really listen to others.  His own thoughts began to not consume himself so much, he started to realise how little he had previously looked outside of his own bubble, his little world that worried about the expectations of others, and he started, instead, to think about putting his thoughts to a better purpose, one that ultimately could help and unite people, as ultimately, Gary had realised, we do all speak the same language.

                Gary felt a weight lifted from him, as if unshackled from himself, and a responsibility to an audience of his own creation.  From those early neurotic and formative childhood years, through to his late-teenage angst about people's perception of his mind as more tawdry than those around him.  At long last his brain did not feel like something he should have to be ashamed of.

                He was thinking about this, smiling contentedly, sat in the park with his friend Mel.

                She looked at him, sitting there happily.

                Gary turned to Mel.

                "What are you thinking?" she smiled.

                Gary leaned forward and kissed her, and she kissed him back, and it wasn't just the kiss that made him happy, it was the fact that she wasn't anticipating it.

Control

I write this from a position of great privilege, able once again to use words to communicate ideas.  I can describe what I like to you, and it can be understood.  Perhaps what I write will convince you to change who you are and how you behave?  Or, perhaps you will feel the need to challenge my views, engage me in a debate?  Or, maybe you shall just ignore this altogether and go on with your life?
    Regardless, it is such a joy to be able to write this down, to have you read it, to know that this exchange - whatever the outcome - has taken place.  Knowing where we have come from, it brings tears to my eyes, sends a chill down my back, I am so glad we have this.
    Many have forgotten, but not too long ago only the most powerful retained the ability to communicate an idea.  Over time the need to converse had been supressed, desires had been replaced, subtly forcing a shift away from more esoteric and provocative pursuits, to those that generated fleeting - albeit sensuous -experiences.  A quick shot of something stimulating became much more highly prized, through careful marketing, than things that offered prolonged stimuli.
    It was a dwindling process, one that began with a gradual removal of ideas from books and songs and films, replacing them bit by bit until all that was left were non-descript occurences, lights, sounds, colours, that were scientifically designed to provoke a response in the participant without offering anything more nourishing intellectually.  People, slowly, unknowingly deprived of information adjusted their palattes to this new entertainment and ultimately no longer craved something that would engage their brains; brains which had begun to atrophy.
    Yet the powerful maintained their intellectual pursuits, and they continued to research ways in which to keep the population at large obedient to their carefully constructed means of satisfaction.
    It became almost Pavlovian, people worked like animals for treats, they completed a task and were rewarded by a light show or a pleasing sound, sometimes a pleasant aroma or a tasty, non-descript biscuit.  We had ceased to have, what we once called, a soul, and instead were little machines, powered by the basest form of desire.  Indeed, the stimulus would always provoke our most primal desires, our bloodlust through meat, our sexual urges, or giddy thoughtless laughter, like tickling a baby.  All these feelings they were able to encourage through these programmed displays, or chemical catalysts, and we, merely content to indulge ourselves, lapped it up.
    But the powerful were naive in their own pursuits, for they did not create anything new, merely content to amass more and more power, they ultimately drowned in their own selfishness and wealth, letting their imaginations atrophy.  Eventually all they were was the gluttonous heads of the colonies, an army of drones beneath them, not a true thought to share between the lot of them.
    So, how did we get back?  How did we reclaim that which we had forgotten made us truly human?
    It was simple, given time, if you wind things one way it will, like a spring coil, one day snap back.  There were anamolies, little squeaks of - what they would have once called - dissent, and fear managed to quell this to begin with.  Those who saw the questioning act would retaliate, unable to attribute consequences to their violent actions, they would literally stamp out a little anarchist at the first sign, taking pleasure in the grim satisfaction that an adrenal act of violence can offer the simplest and most ignorant of people.
    But you can't keep quieting the voice, and over time, painfully slowly, it grew louder and the powerful did not know how to contend with it.  For in the end, there is nothing stronger than a good idea, and that is what they lacked, and as others became able to wonder why things had to be the way they had been made to be, they began to see the strings and follow them up to the hands that puppeteered them, to the control that they never knew existed, and rather than just cut their strings they pulled on them, they tore their puppet-masters down from the sky and let them see the world of their creation, the horrible world that we had all accepted.
    So language was born again, and whilst I must revel in its ressurection, I can't help but worry that we have learnt nothing from our suffrage, that one day we will complacently let the powerful herd us once more, and the voices of dissent will be dismissed and muffled, and when we finally come to realise the control that has imprisoned us, we will realise that we no longer have the means to communicate about it.
    I hope you realise the gift you have, that I can write this and that you can read it, and however it may stir you, I hope that we never find ourselves controlled again.

Connection

My mother rang me online last night, it was hard to recognise her amongst the stuttering images and clipped sound, I don't know if the connection was bad at my end or hers.

My Dad was texting me at the time, so maybe the signals clashed or something? I'm not sure. He was asking me if I saw the email from my sister about her birthday. I hadn't had a chance to check my emails. My phone gets the internet, but it's slow, especially when I'm on my commute, besides it's easier to look at photo sharing sites, this girl I like uploads pictures quite regularly and I heart the best ones, but not too often, else it might seem stalkerish I guess.

I wrote some good updates today though, someone I don't know liked them, it was a girl, her profile seemed nice so I followed her, hopefully she'll post something good and I can like it in return.

Not many people have read my last blog, but that's ok, I don't really link to it much, and it's more for me than anyone else. I've started posting some poems as well, but not sure whether I'm tagging them well enough to get any interest.

I emailed a writing group that I thought I could go to, and they added me to their next event's invites, so I might go along if I can get out of work early enough.

Got an I.M. from my manager, she wants me to go out for some milk and tea bags. I message back asking if I'm supposed to take this out of petty cash or charge it to my expenses? She hasn't replied yet, though I can hear her moving in her office upstairs.

The phone rings as I'm putting my coat on, it's an automated recording about insurance or something, I don't really listen, I just wait to see if I can be removed from the mailing list. I can, I press nine.

I know the supermarket well, I deftly weave amongst the shoppers aiming their barcode scanners at the tins they rattle into their trollies. I nimbly grab two pints of milk and get some mid-range tea bags and head straight for the self checkout.

Accidentally the machine scans the tea bags twice, the red light starts blinking above the monitor, but I can't see an assistant anywhere to help. Cautiously I step away from the self checkout to try and find them, but I can't see anybody.

I leave the tea bags and milk and walk the length of the store, but each aisle seems as fruitless as the last, even, ironically, the fruit aisle. I head back to the checkout and pick up my items, looking around, contemplating my actions, and then I walk out of the store without paying for my purchases.

There are no alarms, and nobody comes running out after me.

Outside the streets are quiet, the sun is out at last, but nobody is around. A shop-online delivery truck almost clips me as I wait to cross the road, finally the green man tells me it's okay and I walk back to the office.

I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket, I answer, it's my mother, but the distorted line makes her voice sound cold and robotic.

The Spoken Word

And no emails would send, no texts would deliver, no phones would ring, no pens would write, no letters would post, no morse code, no telegrams, no walkie talkies. Nothing could get through, apart from standing near someone and saying the words out loud.

There was panic, but its extent was unknown to those experiencing it. Fortunately, people asked one another; "Is your phone working? No, mine neither." The sentence passed like a parcel in a party game from one person to the next, until it started to be understood that nothing was working.

A couple had arranged to meet for dinner, but she was held up at work, she tried to send him a message, she tried to phone the restaurant, but she could not reach anybody, and finally she had to tell her boss that she could not stay late that evening as she had to meet her husband for dinner, and she was allowed to leave, and she hurried through the streets, finally explaining the situation to her husband and they had a marvellous dinner.

A pizza shop stood in silence wondering why, on a Friday night, the phone was not ringing with orders, as it often tended to do at this hour, and what they would do if no pizzas had to be cooked, until, a short time had passed, and people began walking into the shop and making their requests, promising to come back in a minute to pick up the piping hot pizza and carry it home.

Clicking incessantly on the computer's icon the teenager could not understand why his laptop would not connect to the internet, so the following day he went to the shop and bought the new record he was looking forward to from a person behind a counter who smiled and they talked about their respective problems with technology and then they spoke about their shared interest in that band, how the new single was a bit disappointing but they still had optimism for the full album.

Other shoppers weren't so fortunate, as their credit cards could not connect wirelessly with their banks, so their purchases would not go through. Outside the banks the queues snaked around the street, people tirelessly arguing with the tellers, ultimately staggering cautiously outside with their life savings stuffed into holdalls.

On a residential street a fire burned, the family stood outside, but were soon taken into a neighbour's for cups of tea, and a man jumped in his car and drove to the fire station to get help, whilst other neighbours brought out fire extinguishers from their garages and kitchens doing their best to tackle the blaze.

Shop keepers stood defiantly against opportunistic thieves who had felt the lack of telephones would make the high street an easy target, but policemen walked the beat with senses heightened, trying to compensate for their lack of radios, and unable to rally their friends, the thieves soon retreated.

Commuters on trains and buses unable to busy themselves with their social media feeds found themselves looking around for gossip, they found conversation in the company of strangers, whilst others brought books from neglected shelves and found themselves laughing or crying on a journey that had become so routine and familiar.

A young man, fed up with his job, tried to phone in sick, but could not get through, nor could he email, and he hoped that during the night the building that been destroyed in some sort of catastrophe and he would never have to go back there again. But, with very little alternative, he got dressed, made for the door and began his commute into work.

Traders in stock markets stood with their mouths agape and watched blank boards wondering where the strings of numbers and letters that governed their days had disappeared to. Some laughed and clapped one another on the back at the ludicrous situation, whilst others wrenched clods of hair from their own heads in unwitting mania.

There were no love letters and no suicide notes, no final notices or payment's due, no get well soons or happy birthdays, not unless you told them so yourself.

At first people found the words in frustrated fits and starts, awkwardly interacting with one another, devoid of a means to direct their passive aggression into snide texts, tweets and emails, people found their inner monologues trickling out as mutterings, asides and rolled eyes. But, soon, people found the means to be civil, after one too many scuffles, slanging matches, circular arguments over nothing, they realised that polite words had both a calming and immediate effect.

Besides, people's ears weren't plugged by songs, shows, news, stories.

It meant that couples sat at home, staring at a blank box, thumbing through blank books, spinning empty records and wondering what to do. Then she would pick up her guitar, and he would sit at the piano, it would be uncomfortable at first, those awkward notes and chords, they didn't gel, but they stumbled their way along, nervous titters relaxing into easy giggles.

Parents found their minds challenged by the demands of their children, tucked awkwardly and impatiently between sheets, asking for a bedtime story. At first the words tripped and fell, but soon they found their legs, running, sprinting and then taking flight. Mother and father surprised by the worlds inside of them, and reinvigorated by the looks of wonder and smiles on their children's faces.

Without radios, cds and mp3s people stopped to listen to the busker, they went to their local bar for a gig, and they told them, the performers, how they enjoyed the music and asked when they would be playing next.

And people told tales and jokes, they broke bad news and cried in one another's arms, they complimented and criticised, they wooed and they booed, thoughts flowed freely, and whilst we could not all agree, we tried our best to articulate things, with passion, with intelligence, we wanted to debate, to reason, to understand.

Until the following day, when a text message, long since delayed, finally made its way to someone's mobile phone, and the world was rebooted and connected again, and the man sent a text back to his girlfriend saying; 'Sorry babez, fink we shld end it X'.