So she speaks. Only tomorrow I will listen.

Dear Michelle,

When will you ever tire of this social game? Lending your soul to these cameras letting them alter who you are. Agreed, this pretentious facade provides the perfect cover for your vile identity. Do you succumb to the power between these lenses and worship this inanimate object of absolute dictation or are you still you? Dear Michelle, I am confused. In your hands, is this your tool of poison or are you a slave bound to eternal servitude? With every shot it injects its venom. Do you feel it spreading slowly? Conquering all that you are, removing your very essence capturing your shell to lay as a print on overpriced paper or to digitalize it as pixels? Will you ever see it my way or is this stockholm syndrome a source of comfort for you? In your casket, cold as marble, silent, supporting minute forms of life - bacteria and fungi, decomposing your flesh to merge with the ground, all the future stands before you only to remember you by your shell.

So dear Michelle, go on. Just smile.