We Are the Dead

I work in front of a machine. My "desk" is a folding table, in a row four long and two wide. mirror images are set behind and in front. Two people sit in front of their two flatscreen monitors.

Except me. I don't have to share my table. 

My keystrokes change the future and the past. Something is responsive or it is not.  It is relevant or it is not.  It is a good fact, a bad fact, or it almost doesn't exist. I decide with keystrokes.

I am Winston Smith.

Like Winston, Big Brother is watching.  Sometimes, he does it with rapt, blinkless attention. I can tweet but not Facebook. Sometimes, it comes in the form of accepting the acceptable use policy each time I login.

Have I ever seen the policy?  Probably not. EULA. Finance contracts. acceptable use policies. Who reads any of those? But I digress.

How will I know when I have crossed the boundary?  There is no picture of St. Clement’s Church on the wall. Certainly no Julia to make the thoughtcrime worth the price. I used to think I worked in Room 101.  What's left?