The Sound of Scrolling (eBook, ePUB)
A Geography of Dust
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This is not a book about productivity. It is a book about the room where productivity is supposed to happen. It is about the cold light of a screen in the dark, the geography of dust on a desk, and the high-pitched hum of a power strip that is always on.This is a record of small, quiet failures: the forgotten birthday, the perpetually buffering video, the dead leg from sitting too long in a chair that is about to break. It is an investigation into the static of modern life, the lag between a sound and the event, and the ghosts that live in our digital archives.Told through a series of fragment...
This is not a book about productivity. It is a book about the room where productivity is supposed to happen. It is about the cold light of a screen in the dark, the geography of dust on a desk, and the high-pitched hum of a power strip that is always on.
This is a record of small, quiet failures: the forgotten birthday, the perpetually buffering video, the dead leg from sitting too long in a chair that is about to break. It is an investigation into the static of modern life, the lag between a sound and the event, and the ghosts that live in our digital archives.
Told through a series of fragmented, unflinching essays, The Sound of Scrolling is not a guide. It is an embodied confession-a raw, intimate look at the clutter of a life lived in the glow of a blinking cursor, where every memory is interrupted and the only thing that feels real is the waiting.
This is a record of small, quiet failures: the forgotten birthday, the perpetually buffering video, the dead leg from sitting too long in a chair that is about to break. It is an investigation into the static of modern life, the lag between a sound and the event, and the ghosts that live in our digital archives.
Told through a series of fragmented, unflinching essays, The Sound of Scrolling is not a guide. It is an embodied confession-a raw, intimate look at the clutter of a life lived in the glow of a blinking cursor, where every memory is interrupted and the only thing that feels real is the waiting.
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