Are You the Invisible Song That Was Playing?

To wear a blindfold in the algorithmic state one must trust that the crowd is closer to a mosh pit than an ocean. One morning your glass of orange juice is replaced by a beacon of sunlight and from then on, the square of sadness you carry in your pocket feels heavier.

When I was a data point, I posted to a forum a question about the effects of perimenopause and when the answers came back, I trembled in their presence. My love of the Internet was like my love of city. In each, I wandered underground, smelling of pomegranates and hemorrhoid cream.

Yesterday, on the subway I overheard a woman with a voice like a cartoon parrot complaining of her Macy’s coworker’s purchase of a thong for clubbing. “The picture showed just what it is—a sack for your dick and balls.”