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Fiona calls to me, wanton and compressed. Boundaries fail and banks erupt like an icon of sweet and sour privilege across sweaty orchards pixelated with cream-cheese and empty delusions.

“What have you, good Sir?” as I step between discarded desktops and idealized interfaces, presented only to induce my perpendicular abandon. But I have no ears for such empty sets. My memory is left but to expand and refresh with abandon, I long only for my Fiona, somewhere in the upper-left corner of my experience.

I toggle her, begging for forgiveness and ease for my pain. I yearn to glitter in response to her zesty tapioca pudding. But lo! I am denied. A voice descends upon me, speaks:

“What you see! What you get!”

“But I must have more!” I scream back, pounding my fists, searching in vain for relief. Fiona! She is X now, a shadow of her former self. She is lost to me, aloft somewhere like a unicorn in a sheep-dip, and I yearn to tell her so.

I step once again to the bar, precipitating through menus to drown myself in lost infinities, seeking salvation but all is but fraught with frustration and broken dreams. My icons speak back to me and bleed sweet tears but grab nothing. Another voice calls, creeping toward me from seven discolored windows, wooing me with sweet promises and complex commitments. But my reality retorts with rage.

“Fiona is all I seek, the Apple of my arterial cortex,” but I cannot find her.

“Find her!” I scream. “Find her useless Finder that but fined her for leaving unreferenced memories in my soul!” But my plea falls in an empty abyss, leaving me in totality with my craving.

“X! OS X! What you get!” the voice thunders, pitilessly, and I collapse in a gooey mass of longing for a more. Total. Finder.

Edited 2011-01-04 03:53 UTC