Program Not Responding. Damn it. In a work zone working working working working not saving not saving not saving so good so good…gone. Ghost white screen. Tiny spinning wheel of doom, disaster, misfortune, calamity, whatever. It is just short of death. In death, no worry is required. Fear and loathsome living is what happens in a life where ideas are tippity-tappitied onto the non-page of digital downfall. A culture on a slippery slope into the eventual loss of all knowledge. Somewhere, maybe, monks are gathering together the remaining knowledge in hard copy and sequestering it in a monolithic tower off the coast where no fiend will find it until after the machines have had their way. They will save scant vestiges of civilization once again, if history’s saintly lies are to be believed. Meanwhile…tiny spinning wheel of doom, disaster, misfortune, calamity, whatever. Waiting. Knowing. The document is done. The composition is kaput. Computer will not convey a copy. Pen and paper were so simple. Program Not Responding. Damn it. My life is a hell.
This is hard for me. My life is a hell. Be afraid. Or you will join me. TFTD: WTH?