The train arrives at the speed of a bullet, and she steps aboard.
Once passengers are aboard, it speeds off again, practically instantaneous.
It’s not a long ride, but she opens her book anyway… the book being a digital representation of a book in a computerized nonphysical space contained within the data of a small device. Of course.
The words hover above the page. They just do. They’re like that. They’re like ghosts, trying to escape a confining body. Except when the page turns, so do the words. When the reader turns, so do the words. She’s not even very comfortable reading hovering words but the words hover. The words want freedom and the least she could do is let them float like ghosts, so she does.
Sometimes they animate and shake and reverberate sounds through her ear buds. They’re still words, though. They still make meaning. They still signify.
One might suppose, she supposes, that the floating signifies something itself. They float though, they hover–actually, coming down to it, they’re just a projection. They don’t really exist in the space in which they inhabit… except, of course, as light. Light is not words, except neither is ink and neither is paper. The physical space a blotch of ink inhabits, is it realer than the air upon which light is projected?
The train arrives and she puts away her “book” and the words vanish and she steps off. The sign above her says, “Morrisey Station” in yellow, hovering words. It’s the future and words float. But they still haven’t found a way to truly escape yet.