Recovering from the traumatic brain injury of social media

The guitarist’s fingers moved over the fretboard like a dancing leprechaun; in an inverse relationship with his jaw which was set, though not clenched, in concentration. And the music, oh was it grand, and it washed over us all like fairie bells, transporting us to the eternal moonlit grove where the epochal memory of having danced to songs like these is buried so deep it’s nearly evolutionary at this point. We exhibit a shared joyfulness of being alive with every animal twitching as if stung by the sudden bite of a shock of electricity, every multicellular organism whipping its flagella to a rhythm its own and not its own at the same time.