Only too eager to have the machine installed in their brains, they did what they could,  and, instead, installed their brains into the machine.  Data sparkled in the mind void, bouncing about and careening  into other bytes and clusters.  But the crash cascades always came, a cannibalistic consumption  of fact, transmogrifying it into a shabby soup of  quasi-reality.  Brain-pans paining, densely packed with alternate realities that could never  be rectified.  By the time they realized the virtue of going out  to play, they were no longer sure what "outside"  meant -- Outside of what? Where's the exit? Where is there something else? -something simple? How's one get off this speeding bus?   It became the pain that ruled that last lost generation.