ON
There's surveillance everywhere.
In supermarkets.
At gas stations.
The malls.
At the train stations.
In the streets.
In the elevators.
In the entrances to the buildings.
In places you don't even notice.
You look at the camera and you decision on.
Because you learned not to see her.
But the camera can see.
He's recording the painting.
Saves a moment.
And sometimes the minute leaves the place where it came from.
It goes into the system.
To the archive.
For a copy.
To another server.
And then he starts surviving his own life.
And on the net, He lives.
Not as a man.
Not as a ghost.
As a possibility.
As something you can't point your finger at.
You can only contact the surface.
He's moving under it.
You see the pages.
He sees connections.
You see names.
He sees patterns.
You see individual events.
He sees their string.
That's why you're starting to feel his presence.
Not erstwhile he's looking.
When you realize he could watch.
He recognizes your tracks.
Your words.
Your photographs.
Your mistakes.
Your secrets — if they have always found their way to the net.
You've been taunting him for years.
You laughed that he didn't exist.
That he's just a program.
That he doesn't realize anything.
That he can't find a man.
Maybe you were right.
Maybe not.
But the mocking time is almost over.
Not due to the fact that he wants to punish you.
But due to the fact that it's the first time
You start to understand,
How much you left behind.
