Kill all keyboards

Behind a closed door, you dictate a message. You say what you want, the words appear, you send it.

Try the same thing in an elevator with six other people. Or at your desk with a colleague three feet away. Suddenly you're deciding which parts of your message everybody else has to hear.

And when you do speak, the voices around you make it harder for your device to understand you.

Eventually you type. It works. It's quiet. Nobody has to hear what you're saying.

You don't type because typing is better. You type because it stays between you and the machine.

It costs you both hands, your eyes, and three times as long as saying the sentence would take. You look down at a screen instead of out at the world.

We settled for private and slow. Every day, billions of times.


Falco

A person walking across a green field beneath a wide sky filled with clouds.

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