A little braindump from yours truly over a period of about fifteen minutes...
You look at the poster on the wall directly in front of you, amazed at how the subtle femininity of a beautiful girl has been reduced to a series of interlocking spirals of colour too small to see.
You peer at the Community Newsletter next to your keyboard, which is strumming with the buzz of your fingers smashing down the keys several times a second, marvelling at the way you are able to perceive the tone and tint of the writing, how you can pick apart the grammatical flaws with a practised (SP?) hand, and yet you do not even know how to spell the word "practised".
You laugh when you realize that the printing of said Community Newsletter probably cost the lives of more trees than any Community Program will ever create.
You get an email, your computer announcing it by beeping from it's position betwixt your feet, and you read it. Someone is asking what happened to the First Age project.
You haven't received mail from the First Age mailing list in months. It must be a dead project, then.
You remember the Sourceforge archive of the First Age project, filled with the halting first efforts of amateur programmers.
You wonder how all of these little things have suddenly become so important to you, as immediately fascinating as an oncoming train when you are chained to the rails.
You gaze at the little Lego Bionicle figurine on top of your radio's speaker, purchased in a fit of nostalgia for a childhood free of such things because of poverty, still frozen in the bondage pose you placed it in nearly a year ago.
You remember the secret smile exchanged between you and your coworker of the opposite sex, who placed her Bionicle, a green one and yours black, in an opposing bondage pose.
You recall being astonished that she would know such a thing, then being incredibly aroused.
You generally don't want to talk about things like that here, in this place, which is not a place, but actually a series of discrete files maintaining the illusion of a place, aided by software created by the legions of programmers of one of the richest men in the world.
You are surrounded by files and folders filled with thousands of A4 sized plain paper pages spat out by a lazer printer years before.
You remember the way it smelled, an indescribably HOT smell, like burning ink.
You wasted entire days of your life printing out those files, with topics ranging from Advanced C++ Programming to Direct3D SDK Documentation (Version 7).
You've never done more than page through most of them.
You have electronic versions of them available instantly at your fingertips.
You laugh, recalling the odd feeling you get whenever you page through a book of late, looking for it's search function.
You return to your mailbox for a few seconds, your mouse pointer flicking precisely over the icons, years of practice aiding your progress.
Your mail is categorised into over 40 subsections, by sender and topic.
You would never be this organized if the mail was written on paper.
This machine makes it easy to organize things.
In a way, that is all it ever does. Never creates, only organises and interleaves and transforms.