Hotkeys are broken, and the sun is broken, and lightbulbs (like warmth) are transients, destroyed by transients (electrical not human), and it’s like staring down a mineshaft accelerating towards the bottom (which will itself eventually only be a metaphor). Struggling with a recalcitrant coat that keeps you home, spinning and wobbling entropically (in wider and more irregular loops), until you settle back into the sofa, a point from which not even light may escape.
The future is written in light not in ink you protest, but shit in one hand and wish into the other and see which one fills up first.