Nothing (2011), Blake Butler

I might think, for instance, of what happened hours before the want for bed came, again online, sitting with my machine killing hours clicking in endless queue of electronic day—how I ended up again on Facebook's black hole—jumbling through nothing, staring at images of head after new head, until maybe I landed on a particular friend's profile, someone who I've mostly only ever known online, and who as a result I know differently than friends as bodies—their words, their wants or ideas, each day in silence fed—)and here inside the night inside the hour I leave a comment there about them on their electronic wall, words passed herein by pressing buttons into a board I used all day to press letters into other names in other ways, perhaps a random observation spent in passing or maybe a congratulations or inside joke, text for nothing but transition, these are the words that came into my head when I thought of you, another small memory totem of the era, soon to be pushed down in tally as others also comment, the sentiment to be blinked on for some small moment perhaps and then sent archived into the never-ending electronic mush, another hiccup in the night.

SFT.