The closest expression that represents the feeling is portrayed by a 10-second camera pan with “and the Oscar goes to” in the background. Maybe because that’s what actors do? Well, at least those good – connected – enough to be in that oversized, definitely overcrowded room. That’s of course assuming they’re not over-botoxed enough to *upgrade* to zombie mode.
Egyptian context? Definitely. Green floor, flashy lights, red shirts – white, if you’re an MM (and no, this does not stand for Mortada Mansour .. whose heart I plead to if he ever reads this. He probably has some documentation somewhere of the precursor *first time I notice this word* things going on in my skull. Or does he *raises eyebrow*). Interruption: well, this depends. Once your nervous system gets habituated with the initially unbearable car, motorcycle, and even donkey-cart honks, all of which are amplified 16 times as a function of healthy ears, you notice the little things.
That’s the sound of a water volcano cursing the purple lipstick covering it’s plastic end. That’s the mucoid breakup that might fortunately miss your feet. That’s the compulsive burp failing to camouflage as human language. That’s the erratic hallucination of technology that has even possed the cleaning lady who has done quite well at Candy Crush.
That’s the sound of typing. And this is your Oscar-like, match-like look, with superb focus on the eye muscles, at the neglect of awareness of all the others, to reach the end of this. And, yes, this is the unconscious movement to make yourself feel comfortable enough that you’re not being described. Whatever makes you happy.
Here it is. The end of this (whatever you may call it). The question now: why aren’t you looking at your toes?