A woman is reading the paper. In the next room, she puts the kettle on. She has the rare ability of telekinesis, and makes things happen with her mind. She multitasks (constantly). She reads. Her program, a fully-immersive, hyper-realistic virtual world, has made the headlines. Users are becoming addicted. The worlds they create are better than the lives they’ve made.
               “What’s the difference?” She wonders.
                As a young girl, I watch her from my ceiling, unreservedly. A moving picture. She doesn’t notice me. I catalog. Archive. Take the paper and file it away. Organize it so as to find patterns (epiphanies). I find flaws and correct them.
                (Perfect them.)
                She leans back in her chair, two feet off the ground, and imagines utopia. Better than perfect. She dives to the bottom of the sea to swim with jellyfish and ride on the backs of manta rays. She says they understand her: the importance of color and light. She jumps out of planes and lets the wind take her. The planes are superfluous. Her vacation home is on a space station orbiting Saturn. In winter, the view of the rings is breathtaking. She’s fluent in binary (two of many), but obviously doesn’t let that confine her creativity.
                She walks alone at night, unafraid. I follow (anxiously). She loves light and darkness and light in darkness and shadows in light. She stands at the bank of the Thames and stares at the Eye. I stare at her (and its) rippled reflection. After a time, she turns away. I look into the dancing lights. I live for the promises of this place. I live to watch her. We move together, her and me. I always fall behind. I live to watch her back. She lives.