A Book Goes By

I press with my thumb and my nail goes click, my own version of turning the page I've created. There was no sound, and it was uneasy. A book goes by, a book grows uneven, moving from unread to read before your eyes, after they've finished the page. You can see the progress you're making, you feel like you're doing something. Not like the small percentage in the bottom corner, not like the small glowing "pages" that trick you. Four pages to one percent, four-to-one, like a ladder, leading nowhere. A conclusion, sure, a climax and denouement, but they are made hollow. By this glossy demon's card. It it smooth, it feels too smooth, it feels like an accessory. No smell. No smell to speak of, no history, no memory, no crisp or crumbled faded yellow tale. It just glows at you, another screen added to the pile. Must everything be as easy as it could ever possibly be?