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A description


λngelღмander

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The bright light of the laptop uses his body as the filling for a mold, casting his shape across the wall in absence and not light. In such, it lacks any defining color at all. A shadow can be both very descriptive of an object, and yet not be projecting that object itself but rather the absence of that object. I think that's pretty cool. The shadow cast by the light of the laptop is narrow because it's source is much larger than the object blocking it, and around the neck there is a lighter area of shadows that makes it appear that the head is floating. A tattered piece of paper hangs from tape in front of a bright light, blocking it's light from directly hitting the boy's eyes, but still illuminating the keyboard and the area the computer is at. There is a small syringe filled with dirty water in which a culture is growing, as a failed experiment the boy conducted. Across the room in a shiny lucid plastic container is an apple pie, resting in a bed of aluminum. Behind the laptop screen, hidden, is a bowl with what is left of a serving of ice cream, waiting to be taken to the sink when the boy next gets up. To the far left of his vision rests his router, it's five lights flickering occasionally, the connection severed seldom and ephemerally. A beautiful Himalayan cat sits on the counter, eyes drooping, lulled by the dull somnolent glow of the light in the range over the oven. Inside an electrical socket just under him on the side of the counter flows one hundred twenty volts of electricity, at 20 amps. Sixty times a second the electricity bounces between the source and that outlet, which is uncluttered and not preoccupied by a plug. Perhaps if he were a robot, he would extend his near invisible cords from his anus or mouth, or another orifice they could fit inside, to recharge before the night is out, so he does not run low and risk being stranded without electricity, "dead" as the humans call it. It happens to all old cats, as their batteries die, they can't sneak over to the outlets often enough, and life becomes all about the electricity, and then they die. Is that how the world works? Behind the elegant and gracefully curved faucet apparatus is another countertop with a window. An assortment of pictures lay upon that windowsill. A chronology of the boy's life, whenever possible. A cleaning sponge and hand sanitizer lay discarded there. The lower window pane and sill are dotted and striped with cat hairs. If there were a mirror on the floor, the ceiling would be an interesting sight. Small projections dot the area around the range, producing light. What a world it would be, the floor being completely flat and not marred by anything but occasional fans and lights, and walls, and the floor being the cluttered area. A young boy's dream, both figuratively and literally. A microwave, oven, and clock in the room all display a time, all of which are wrong by a measurable degree. The only object in the room displaying the correct time is the laptop the boy sits at in his contemplation. The graceful arch of the microwave handle connects both the top and bottom half of the door. It is not a model that features a button to pop open the microwave door, instead it has a handle, and the bottom right corner is not occupied by a camouflaged button that is meant to resemble the rest of the microwave. The boy looks back to the computer, amazed at how much he was able to type without ever looking but ever so often to make sure there were no pervasive typos. He brings his mouse ever closer to the Publish Now button, and without a final thought, clicks it.

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