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When we write with a pen
or read a book, the word
is what we see. The space
is nothing. It is just before
and after, to keep the words
apart. But, in computers,
that nothing is something,
as real as a letter or number,
equal in its own place.

Likewise, there is a time
to sow and a time to reap,
but there is also a time in-
between, a time to do
nothing, to let the mind
drift. In looking back,
shouldn’t we remember
more than the words
of our lives—the births,
the deaths, the letters,
the numbers? Shouldn’t we
also think back to the time
we were fallow, growing
in silence and space?

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