Electronic mail stands for email.

"Well, I'm lonely, internet."

It captivates us, engulfs us as postcard beings and soul searchers. We long for it, because we long for reality and how it grips us. We wait. Watching those who are idle, behind that encrypted door full of code and false pretenses. A fantasy that is drab and boring and mechanical, yet so rich on its outer layer that--we wait. We sit and pretend to hear is digital chirps while it whirls its motors in ways we could never understand. We write only to rewrite without the consequences of how we are erasing history and chickenscratch congruently. We miss the point of real relationships and force feed fake laughter in rendered scripts and smiley faces. But we still wait. It's like our own existence is cut off if we aren't waiting. Wondering if you're the only one there. Wondering if everyone else is cooking or loving or playing solitare. Pretending we read ink when there is only really words. Words that aren't real. Because you can't taste them, you can't lick the bitter pages and you can't smell the oils and skin that make the book real. You're tempted to click. To sign your electric blood onto this network that weaves and controls your emotions and self-confidence. But you're missing the point--and so am I. But I can't help it. I can't see you. Or smell. Or taste. And those chirps are nothing but whirls of the clicking motor inside its plastic shell.

All I can do is wait.