I have this fantasy of being one of those writers that holes up in some decrepit old property, seemingly fading into obscurity until the inevitable day comes when I birth a masterpiece and release it into the world.
A recluse. A hermit. Whatever term you want to call it. As long as it entails that I be free from the invisible shackles of technology. The burden of anyone being able to reach me at any given time.
I attempted my first stab at realizing this impossible dream. I turned off my phone, put it in the top drawer of my dresser and closed it.
The thought of leaving it there, and leaving the house without it the next day, sent a shiver down my spine.
No Google Maps.
No Kim Kardashian: Hollywood.
This, I thought, is the future.
Then I realized I needed to set my alarm.