Microwave generation,
stand up, and gently place the touch screen glued to your palm on the coffee table nearest you, beside the remote control it replaced.
Do not throw it rashly upon the ground, for it is still of you and cracked screens aren't products of ballers.
We, the microwave generation,
products of young working class parents who released us to our own recognisence,
aided by the microwave because we were too young to mingle with the stove with no supervision. We were trusted with silence and snippets of adulthood,
given whatever necessary to maintain the two.
This, in turn, spoonfed much more than simply whatever we wanted
but complacency.
We were suffocated by love, coddled by it, so we taste for it everywhere, from our equally volatile counterparts

Our paradise is swift and before us always.

We were lulled to sleep by the humming, so the noise-- the gun pops, the firecrackers-- dont wake us. 

But rather settle perfectly into our hands, our eardrums

The world was created before us, and handed over.

No assembly required. 

create. please.

For without us, the latter have nothing.