You're feeling jubilant as your eye captures the perfect illumination of a scene you've seen a hundred times, yet never perceived in this manner before. You ****** your old '85 from the snare of the paper-ridden desktop and keenly snap the staggered allure--until the low, guttural groan of the sprocket slices through your absorption. You abruptly lower the body to bury your misdemeanor within the unanimous truth of the data panel--but alas! Your aspirations are dissolved by the sudden rush of blood berating, "what a pillock!" As your cheeks fill with the crimson truth revealed in the seven-segment display partially reflecting your open jaw dappled like sympathy flowers atop the silent chastising of the slow-blinking "24".