"I hate American late stage capitalism," my Spanish roommate says.
But what can I say to that.
He's right; every second spent here is paid for in gold
or in crimson blood.
Reality pulses with stimulation,
but still,
the clock's hand lazily wanders, lethargic, about its face.
This pathetic, white-haired professor,
lectures on coding in the front of the room.
"American's only know how to tell the time by looking at their phones," my roommate says.
But I think to myself, now, computers are the only way we bother telling time anymore. Time has become precise,
But it used to be clumsy, more art than discrete mathematics.
The professor informs the class that we have to pay for the textbook,
and again for the software that will grade our code,
and the class doesn't even blink.
"Class dismissed," says the clock. Ironic, I know.
The blue light of our phones,
the kind that keeps us awake at night,
is turned on as we step outside.
"It's noon," I say, and I hear the echoes of gunshots in schools just like this one,
Where someone got tired of paying in cash.
