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?