"This page is dead", I say to myself. The wireless has dropped out on my netbook, and I'm left with half-loaded ideas, and pages devoid of pictures.
Resigned, I close the lid, and pick up Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
"This page is dead", I say to myself. The paper I'm touching was once part of a tree. I think about how information is stored, how it changes over time. I read a few pages, but start to wonder if the internet is working again.
I close the book, and go for a walk, touching the trees as I pass.