You know, I like to believe that I exist. I am more than 8 digits in our new virtual phonebooks, who even has a physical one anymore. Do you? Or perhaps 10 digits. Worse still, I am simply a word in the contact list – 7 characters, or variants. If deleted, would I still be contactable? Probably not. I could also be this name on the screen, with the green icon popping on and off from day to day. Or a red one, or brown. I like to believe, in the world today, that I am more than a Ding on the screen. Sure it’s ironic that I’m writing this here. But perhaps I exist when I am not on line, whichever line you might be refering to. That my presence, and absence, is more than a virtual digital one. That I have hands, with fingers and warm palms that you could hold, or shake. That I have a voice, which perhaps I should use more. That I have a shadow, no matter how faint in the moonlight. That standing in the crowd at wisma I am a face until I turn and become just the back of another head or bend down and disappear in the sea. If you tickle me, do I not laugh; if you prick me, do I not bleed.