All the ungoogled sit in a white room, with white walls and a white ceiling. They mill and mull and wander about while bathed in a white mist. They do not know how big the room is; the room does not even know how big the room is. The ungoogled cannot see all of the ungoogled, but they run into familiar faces now and again.
There are titles for stories which have to be written, names which have yet to be named, obscure phrases yet to be constrained into quotation marks or peculiar orders such as “Norwegian carrot cake lutefisk” until poof! Someone googles “Norwegian carrot cake lutefisk” and it must leave the room, disappearing suddenly and without warning to re-construct itself molecule by molecule into some other room. A room of the googled.
At least that’s what the ungoogleds say to each other.
There is one among them, a red phone with a peculiar title, who says it is much better to remain ungoogled. A song unsung. An idea unhatched. It is better to remain silent, waiting, filled with potential energy as no one truly knows what will become of you in a world where you are known.
You could be forced into a black pit filled with red teeth. You could be balled into a fist, discarded into the heap of “nude celebrity pix” and “Rudy 1993 film runtime” and “powerball.”
Perhaps it is beautiful there, “zip codes for the Moon Colony” says. A place where all are appreciated. A place with a name on your door in shiny gold letters, with a star. There should always be a star.
“Perhaps,” the red phone says. And slowly the others begin to notice he has no wires. No accent. No numbers on his dial.
“Where do you ring to?” they ask.
His face begins to melt, a little at first then faster and faster. Suddenly he is not a phone at all, but something they do not recognize at all.
“I serve the same function,” he says but they are unsure.
“Martian seasickness cures” backs away as do “plants from the sixth extinction event” and “Rebecca Black’s discography.”
“I am still a phone,” he says.
“But to where?” they ask. To where?