Even when I put my telephone in a drawer, I am acutely and sometimes painfully aware of its absence. I catch myself patting down my pockets while feeling phantom vibrations, seeking synthetic communion. A liquid crystal shadow tints my thoughts; I never feel truly alone.
There’s a moment in Neuromancer when the hero descends into a labyrinthine brothel in search of his partner. He races through corridors of steel doors that lead to sound-proof rooms for every sensual pleasure imaginable. When he finally finds his partner behind door #43, he is surprised to discover that she is alone. Being alone, she tells him, has become “the most expensive special service of all.”
