Can you jam with the console cowboys in cyberspace?

No. You can’t. Not yet.

It’s quite possible that my work in computers today is a last ditch to actualize a childhood fantasy of solving neighborhood crimes with my friends in Brooklyn with the help of a friendly ghost that communicates via word processor. You type, then we type, Ghostwriter.

The way she caresses the monitor in this scene: longingly, tenderly, expectant. The arrogant gush of buzzwords. Unalloyed after school cool.