The world is turning. I hope it don't turn away.

Enter this purgatorial state. The crowd of people, the wooden table (a relic of the 1950s), the fingers, a knuckle crack, a note, a note, a couple more, a lonely animal, a flyer for an Indian reservation. Plants, coasters, the blue haze remnant of a blinking eye lingering, the man alone at the microphone.

I think I'll get out of town.

Suddenly I remember land lines, these ancient ties to the past, a hard wire connection to another person.
Suddenly I remember land lines,  overwhelmed now by digital static. Three letters.