great prose, but the where, the how, does not matter. what matters is thought alone. the world, IRL, as we sing in poetry, is itself a screen. Be there, be here, doesn’t matter, what matters is where your spirit gets nourishment. You can read this same in a book under the tree, maybe get bit by ants, or read it on a phone by the pool, and get sunburn, or maybe just on your pc at your desk, but maybe your boss or your child will come disturb you. everything has merit, just as much as demerit.