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


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