Hot Cold

The computers hum and blink their one giant eye, a room full of Cyclops that never sleep and stare and have no eyelids. Sure, there are screensavers but they just blink some more and never stop radiating energy into the room chock full of fluorescent light and rays. It's dead here, quiet, a place of screens and papercuts on my fingers from the paper that spews out of the printers, page after page after page. Outside it's windy cold fresh and the leaves are slick wet under my shoes. The parking lot it black and wide and I rush to my car get in lock the doors. It's scary in parking lots at night when nobody's around and there are shadows and what could I do? Something. It's nice when I get home and the lights are on but they aren't screens and there is yogurt and cookies and I like the fire that turns on with a switch, because the fire is real true light not from a bulb or screen. It's hot light, not cold like the computer lab, parking lot, but like the sun, summer, the glint in peoples' eyes when they are excited.