Full moon. Once, not all that long ago, every earthly sound was married to time: lover whispering; fire flickering; bird nesting
Tick-tock. Jilted by noise, from phonautograph to phonograph, from gramophone to iPhone we find ourselves divorced
Atomic clock, atom bomb. Bit by byte the giddy machine disoriented us: hearing, reduced to amplitude; taste, like smell, reduced to compounds; sight became a lens
Time-poor. The Revolution span beyond earthly reason. Out of sync, we search oblivious to the companionship of bird, creek, breeze and field
Unadulterated white noise. The numbing machine morphs us into virtual silence: padded cell, designer headphones
Machine / Bruce Graham Fell
