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I was somewhat apprehensive when I first tried it, but I was also excited.

It was another way of attempting to inject the hope of novelty into an otherwise painfully mundane life, or perhaps mundanely painful.

In either case, when I pressed that button for the first time, I felt a new world open up.

It was surreal, warm, invigorating, relieving.

I felt powerful yet calm, like I could do anything.

It was an experience that would be impossible to describe to the version of myself that existed prior to pressing the button.

Now I'm sitting with the same device in my hand, the eTelly 6, looking out at Moraine Lake and Banff National Park in Alberta, Canada.

It's beautiful, but beauty no longer captivates me.

Nothing does.

I've only been sitting here for a few minutes.

I'm listening to the birds, the breeze, the water, and the other people.

It's peaceful, and I'm uncomfortable.

My hand almost tremors as it awaits my conscious brain's permission to start moving.

I try to stay strong, still looking out at the water and the mountains, but without even realizing it, my fingers have already begun to move.

Then I disappear.

Place after place I go.

With but a few moments spent at each, I rush by them all, leaving almost as quickly as I arrive.

I go from the shore of Moraine Lake to a street in New York City, to a soccer game at a stadium in Italy.

On and on I go.

I find myself at my friend Horace's apartment.

I don't fully remember getting here.

I don't even really remember choosing to go here.

It's been happening more and more recently.

I'll show up somewhere without even really realizing or choosing it.

Horace's girlfriend, Cynthia, is also here.

We are talking at their kitchen table.

They are telling me about how hard it was to lock down their new apartment, the one we are currently in.

Rent is higher than ever, they say.

It's difficult finding a good place in a good area that's affordable, they say.

Property managers are always tricky, they say.

I know all of this, but small talk is all talk when your friends are mostly momentary appearances in a constantly fast-forwarded existence.

I share with them some of the similar problems I've had in the past.

I think they're listening, but it's hard to tell.

I think I'm communicating clearly, but that's also hard to tell.

We seem to be in the same conversation, but it also feels fragmented, like we're constantly going backwards to retrieve our pieces, regardless of the relevance to where we are in the conversation.

I am bored, restless, and anxious.

There is a brief pause in the conversation, and I take this as an opportunity to ask Horace and Cynthia if they want to transmit to somewhere.

No, we've been trying to stay in one place a bit more lately.

We've also been trying to walk and drive whenever we can.

It's been nice, Horace tells me.

Cynthia agrees.

This frustrates me a little, admittedly.

I know that's unsavory of me.

I should be supportive, but instead, I'm frustrated.

I'm frustrated that if I transmit to somewhere right now, I'll have to go alone.

Oh, alright, I say with a tone that is both accepting, but also intentionally leaves room for them to change their minds.

They don't.

Good for them, I guess, I think to myself.

Kind of lame, though.

We sit quietly for a few more seconds, which I take as another opportunity, this time to get up and use the bathroom.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.

My eyes are both wide and baggy.

I look both awake and tired.

I used to do this thing where I would stare at myself in the mirror with my nose nearly pressed right up against the glass, and I would stay like that until I could no longer recognize myself in the reflection.

I don't have to do that anymore.

I notice in the reflection my e-tele is in my hand.

That's odd, because I don't remember taking it out of my pocket.

I must have taken it out subconsciously.

Weird.

I think I want to just stay here tonight, with Horace and Cynthia.

I should reconnect more with them.

They're two friends whom I've had for a very long time, and I'm very close with, but have recently fallen further and further away from.

I should stay here.

I'm with my colleague, Terrence.

We're at the base of the Eiffel Tower.

It's massive.

It's busy.

It smells weird.

I don't remember making plans with Terrence.

I don't remember getting here.

I guess Horace and Cynthia didn't want to come.

I'm at a cafe in Barcelona.

I'm by myself now.

I'm drinking coffee on the patio on the sidewalk.

I'm at a dive bar in Chicago.

I'm with another one of my friends, CJ.

We're drinking whiskey.

It's dark, and it smells like piss.

I'm at the historic sanctuary of Machu Picchu, alone.

I'm looking at the ruins of the 15th century Inca civilization.

It's interesting, but kind of boring, and it makes me think too much about death and the end of everything.

I'm at a historic pub in the heart of the Docklands in London.

I'm watching a bar fight as I drink a beer.

I am in my bed.

It is the next morning, Sunday morning.

I don't remember much of where I went yesterday.

I was at each place no more than a few minutes, a few seconds in most cases.

Over the span of the day and night, I must have gone to hundreds of different places, maybe thousands.

When you do that much and go to that many places, spinning your head like a basketball on the finger of dissatisfaction, everything becomes a blur.

I'm frustrated with myself.

This keeps happening.

Once I start going, it's like I can't stop.

I just keep going, never presently in any one place, in any one moment.

I wanted to have a nice day and night.

I wanted to go to maybe one or two or three places.

I wanted to stay with Horace and Cynthia for a while, and maybe have another old friend or two join us.

At the very least, I wanted to focus and get a couple important things done.

I didn't do any of that.

I'll make up for it today, though.

No questions asked.

No excuses.

I'm getting lunch in Copenhagen.

My e-telly must be malfunctioning because I don't even remember choosing this place, or any place for that matter.

I could have sworn I had just woken up.

My eyes are still crusty.

Two of my friends show up, Charlie and Alex.

They love transmitting to places.

We get some food, and our e-tellies are already out.

We're ready to go.

We try to coordinate our plans as best we can.

That's always hard to do.

We are at Kuta Beach in Bali.

We are at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art in California.

We are at Alex's apartment.

We are at a bar and restaurant on the coast of Maine.

We are looking at the Bridge of Sighs in Venice.

We're moving so quickly, however, we lose each other.

We are on our own, separate routes now.

For the rest of the day, I continue to go to more places, trying to coordinate with Charlie and Alex, as well as other friends and colleagues, as best I can.

But I am mostly just going to places by myself.

Countless places by myself.

I'm in my bed.

It's the next morning.

Monday morning.

I have to go to work.

My head hurts.

I'm tired and anxious.

I was supposed to be at work 10 minutes ago.

I'm at my workstation.

I open my display screens and begin working.

I need to get this work done today.

It was due last week.

I can't transmit anywhere today.

I need to stay here, focused.

I'm walking the streets of Tokyo.

Just one place for a little while is fine.

It is night here.

The colorful neon lights of the signage and advertisements violently flash against my eyes.

My eyes barely notice.

I pass by thousands of people as they pop in and out of the city streets.

I'm back at my workstation.

It's harder to focus now.

I pull up more display screens and begin to review some work.

Documents comprising words, numbers, and symbols that mean very little to me.

I don't know why I'm doing what I'm doing.

I don't care about it.

I need this job, though.

I need to get this work done today.

I'm on an observation deck on a New York City skyscraper.

I'm watching a man in a suit propose to what I presume is his girlfriend.

I can't help but laugh.

I'm on a couch with Charlie and Alex.

I'm at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.

There are protesters here.

I'm back at work.

I'm home.

I'm back at work.

I'm home.

I'm at a concert with friends.

I don't know the artist.

I don't recognize them.

People seem to really like her, though.

The crowd is making me claustrophobic, and it's kind of boring.

I can't really see anything too well.

I never understood why people go to concerts.

I'm in the French countryside, alone.

The landscape is vast.

The people are scarce.

It's way too quiet, and there's way too much space.

I'm back at work.

I'm home.

I'm back at work.

I'm home.

I'm at the Santa Monica Pier in California with Charlie.

We play one round of one of the carnival games.

I've lost track of the time, of the day, of the week.

I continue to go to more and more places, and more places, and more places.

I am barely at any of them.

I am moving faster and faster.

Time slips further and further away.

Time is meaningless.

Everything is meaningless.

I want everything to end.

I'm in some sort of quarry.

I'm at the bottom of it, standing on what I assume is bedrock.

How did I get here?

How many years have gone by?

I honestly don't remember much of anything prior to that first teleportation device I tried.

There are mining vehicles around me and up the paths carved out of the quarry walls.

There is no one in any of them.

There is no one around at all.

I am used to being alone.

I'm almost always alone.

Most people have either left my life, or I've left theirs.

A lot of friends and family have scorned my lifestyle, telling me I need to slow down or stop.

Many have left me because of it.

There are so many ultimatums I've failed to oblige.

I get it.

But it would be nice to be loved, at least once in a while, as I am, not who I'm supposed to be.

Maybe then it would be easier to be who I'm supposed to be.

The area surrounding the quarry looks familiar.

There are old, abandoned towers and buildings in the distance that I recognize.

I know where I am.

This is by my childhood home.

I used to come here a lot, with my friends.

We would walk around and ride our bikes through the trails in the surrounding woods.

I think we camped here a few times as well.

I can't think of the last time I spent time like that with friends or anyone, including myself, where there was nowhere to go and no one to be or not be, and I was happy with that.

I hear faint footsteps against gravel.

I look up and see the silhouette of someone at the top of the quarry.

It's a man.

He's looking at me.

Staring at me.

I stare back at him.

He's waving now.

I wave back, but with discomfort.

I don't like waving at strangers.

I don't like strangers at all.

Now he's walking down the quarry wall toward me.

Is that Horace?

I yell, unsure.

Hey!

His familiar voice yells back.

He walks all the way down to the bottom to meet me.