There are no vines only vinyl countertops printed with the fuzzy texture of a disconnected TV screen where a single phone rests like a priest among all of us newly-minted Luddites wondering at the loss of our own phones and computers and the free will to abandon our minds because yes, we still have some grasp on those I guess, like children clutching balloons filled with air from our very own lungs. We have been convinced by the powers that be that these flimsy orbs are filled to bursting with helium and might, if we let go, float up beyond our reach and maybe kill a bird or blind a pilot, something dangerous we’ve been told, and the contents could warp our thoughts into tinny versions of ourselves. We do not know that lung-air is mostly carbon dioxide and our mind-balloons can only drift slowly to the ground, bumping gently against each other and coming to rest at our feet where we can pick them up and go on about our lives.