Yesterday I was at a used book sale, and I kept ending up at the same tables at this one colleged-aged couple. They were sifting through the collectible children’s books, studying the titles and maybe reminiscing about books they’d read as kids. At another point, I was searching the literature section for the least tattered copy of Night, and I overhead them bickering about Jane Austen, then debating whether or not it was worth it to buy books they’d already read. (They decided it was, considering the fifty cent prices.)
Who are you people, and can I be you, or does either of you at least have a brother I could date?
“We have confused conversation with connection and collectively seem to have embraced a new kind of delusion that accepts the simulation of compassion as sufficient unto the day. And why would we want to talk about love and loss with a machine that has no experience of the arc of human life? Have we so lost confidence that we will be there for one another?”—This article pretty much explains everything ever. (via kate-stella)