She tried desperately to move her fingers across the keys in some coherent fashion: a micro-produced column of taps echoed silently through the room. Only symbols_ that were unrepresenting of her written communication attempts_ sprung up in a dialogue box [] they would not even stay stagnant on the screen long enough for her to type in symbol code=that might later be deciphered//www.urges of the unsustantiating internet rose and fell.com she opened her body to the connection and wasted away an hour or four on the download. The noise in the room increased. Not a nice, melodic, unassuming noise: but a disturbing hum that drew her from her connection. It was then she relapsed into the current time. Feeling again the sickness: it was overwhelming: it came at her in brutal waves of non-lucid day un-dreaming.
She returned to the details, unsatisfied with the thickening plot. Tiager realized it was not like her to have a master plan anyway. She decided instead of writing to weave a screen of rubbish into a thoughtless rough and unfinished picture. What else could you do with windows anyway: she looked out of them and dreamed of an Apple.
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