The electronic space where we commune with one another in the quiet blackness of an empty evening seems hollow when no-one is home.

I'm sitting in a pool of light created by my monitor, the edges of my world defined by that one sheet of glass through which photons desperately stream, each one breaking for the border like a prison inmate crossing the last fence to freedom.

I've sent out messages, my own stream of messenger electrons zooming into the middle-distance of my screen, their "hello"s hanging viciously in the air, unrequited. The internet almost seems to echo, like a sepulcher.

And my pool of light seems to shrink a little as my messages float before my eyes, reminding me that loneliness can be found even here--in the center of the electronic heart we've created.

Sometimes the Internet is a GhostTown.

Saturday, August 19, 2006