Scarcity makes the message sing

The term “belonging” seems to be an ancient phenomenon. The Internet owns our words, multiplied and magnified by coerced AI-machine eating rhythms.

The handwritten letter remains undigestible. The most dear? Snail mail starts with the labor of a stamp and the delivery of an envelope and ends with emotion. The isolated processes contain secrets, leaving the recipient with a manifest song.

There’s scribbles and scattered words, evidence of something human. We feel the sender’s neurons fire into our’s like a lit Christmas tree, an echo carved deep of neural synchronization. The school of scarcity makes any mechanical posture nothing special.