I know one day very soon, if not already, this will all seem inconceivable. Nothing will be lost because the Cloud will contain everything, and this crisis will seem like some strange relic from the early twenty-first century. But for a brief moment in time it was enough to make a person want to lie down on a road and become a speed bump. For this brief moment in time our consciousness was split between two bodies: the ones we were born in, and the ones we carried around in little plush cases and forgot on buses. Fragile, portable bodies with the lifespan of salmon. What kind of impossible responsibility was that? A glass of wine knocked over could undo us. I didn’t want that responsibility. That was an impossible degree of responsibility to leave in the hands of a human being! And how had I not noticed this before? If I had realized my self was divided, would I have plunged one half so insistently into the perils of sketchy pornography, left it open beside full mugs of tea, or hovered spoonfuls of milky cereal above it?

As I paced the bathroom that night, stuck in this cul-de-sac of thought, I opened the door of the medicine cabinet into my face. The pain stunned me. And then I did it again: I opened the cabinet door into my face, this time on purpose, bashed myself with it. I walked to the sink and let the blood from my nose drip into it. I wet some toilet paper and held it over my nose. It felt like confirmation: I am barely my body. Half of my self lies buried in the basement along with the other dead monitors and cell phones and power adaptors, all destined to end up in some burning e-waste dump outside of Accra where men in third-hand sneakers will strip them for copper and coltan.