All the mechanical noises,
the thrum of electricity in the veins of my cubicle,
the brief beeps of protest
elicited by a misplaced cursor,
the buzz of my monitor,
even the flicker of my digital picture frame,
conspire against my creativity,
damming the imaginative river in my mind,
my soul,
until I am little more than a puddle
of routines and habits and patterns,
dependent on these incessantly sighing machines,
a zombie of clicks and taps,
with one eye on the clock,
one hand on the black dome of the mouse,
dazzled by by manipulation of the technological world,
and oblivious to that world's manipulation
of me.