“For those who know me,” her message begins. “I would never use Teams as a means of communication to display any personal feelings. However, in this instance, I feel compelled to cry from the roof tops and to rail against the indefensible.”

Can we arise and go now, or did we come in at the end?

Is our flesh slowly synthesising with the metal and innovtive technology we keep experiencing? Or am I just experiencing psychosis and masking it as moral panic?

Obviously, we haven’t fully reached the point where our flesh begins to fuse with actual metal. But it’s dressing like we’re on the periphery of embracing this design.

Three years ago, my roommate tattooed a heart above my left knee. The ink is solid, buried beneath four layers of skin. Memories, however, seep from their station, abandoning all solidity, leaking from every line and lack thereof.

"Don’t be passive, don’t be silent; vote and be heard."

“I’ve heard music and seen films and somehow felt less alone, if we can do that for someone else, then that’s cool in my books.”