The gentle, empty rumble of countless voices crashes against my ears. My nostrils drag in the warn, sterile scent of thousands of computers working in unison, every other, more organic smell obliterated by the work of the Proletariat priests who tend to this grand place. A gentle buzz flows through the floorboards, almost like that which accompanies the movement of a car. The world echoes with a sense of absence as the expected crunch of gravel doesn’t strike my ears. Even with my feet upon the legs of the chair I feel it still. Occasionally this electronic sphere of steel is interrupted by sounds from the outside , laughter or the roar of a car, or some decidedly organic noise or sensation from within my own body – the gentle pulse of my blood, the twisted gurgling of my stomach. It feels like sacrilege for such noises to defile this temple of the machine god.