Sitting here fiddling,
Dithering and diddle.
Past night's middle.

For the time being
Time's being mine
To mine my mind.

At arm's length away,
A pixellated light array
Intends me to stay.

But unresolving and surrounding,
Around and abounding,
Annie's voice is sounding.

She minds this moment,
Making aether real,
For real.

And it is nice.1