I bought a memory stick at lunchtime. It is literally much less than half the size of my little finger.
I’m not an expert in translating gigabytes into their equivalent in words, paragraphs and pages. But I’m pretty sure that this tiny thing could quite easily accommodate everything that I’ve written in my working lifetime
That makes me feel pretty small. And only very marginally cheered by the thought that it could accommodate everything that, say, Shakespeare, Dickens and Tolstoy wrote in their working lifetimes too.
A few words
are all we need
to be free.
The undescribed
cherry blossom
is sublime.
Blows in the wind
like bank notes
at the end of time.
magic crystal wand
lost on bus
no more fuss!
wand
gone
move on
(I am doing my best, slave driver sir.)
all
now
nil