Sometimes, everyone I'm talking to disappears, and I'm left standing there by myself.
I wonder why?
All too often I catch myself staring at a screen, pushing dozens of buttons which make characters appear as black on white or hex-code on hex-code. Then I ask myself, 'What's actually going on?' (figure of speech, I don't really ever ask myself anything).
The characters all work together to form computable, legible messages, to be read by someone who runs a software application known as a browser and repeats the button-pushing process until data is transported digitally in the form of 1s and 0s to his or her network provider and is then decoded by various clever pieces of hardware and software working in unison by a particular set of algorithms, then feeding all that decoded load of bytes and bits through several layers of master software known as an operating system which is designed and built on the layout of a particular architecture, producing a lot of colorful images and symbols on screen, kindly processed by the GPU of the respective computational machine, in order to reveal to the reader someone's overly complex list of behind-the-scenes details of a day-to-day process, repeated multiple times at phenomenal rates using a very advanced piece of hardware known to the average layman as the brain, but which to the knowledgeable surgeon is actually known as the spongy, icky, gooey stuff between people's ears, which, in its turn, computes massive amounts of data at unbelievable speeds, making it possible to absorb information of gazillions of bytes into the highly powerful and gorgeously huge storage section of 1,400 grams of who-knows-what-that-stuff-is, twisting and turning in innumerable directions to fit neatly inside a bone structure called the cranium, and this cranium thingy happens to be...
