Summary

Hands work furiously over the pleasing shape of an insensate computer mouse, either out of frustration or fixation. The red glow of the mouse's laser eye glows against the palms, like Prometheus's stolen flame. The result is a kind of dance between the organic and inorganic, and a sense of the isolation one might feel in the company of devices that supposedly promise connectivity to the world at large, while also enabling a removal from it.