"I'm not allowed to serve you here."

Just a brief thought in the midst of sitting down in a familiar Berkeley spot, back to the wall, looking out across the length of the cafe. A pretty heavy computer-using space and time--the table in front of me has four friends, by the looks of it, sitting around the four sides of a square table, all peering into their screens and occasionally at each other. The thought crosses my mind that this is the modern version of sociality. They're talking occasionally to each other (are they chatting too?). 3 power cords stretch from the table across the floor to a 4-plug outlet. They, like I am, are attached to the wall and half of their souls are, like mine, talking to each other from within the network.

The door opens and in walks a familiar figure--an older looking homeless man with a shopping cart spilling forth with worldly possessions. Long frizzled grey beard, a slightly bent over posture and slow, short, dragging steps. He's been here before and apparently his name/face is on the no-fly list. The young barista looks up at him and says immediately, "I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to serve you here."

He turns around, slowly, maneuvering his cart, opens the door, and shuffles out. Step by step. He's been here before, and he'll probably be back.

Meanwhile, the five of us keep our eyes (mostly) cast on the screen, the remnants of soul sitting in these wooden chairs willfully, seamlessly, easily selling one more bit of themselves to the network.