Vision problems come at you so slowly that it takes years, or even decades, before you first realize that the world around you is not supposed to look like a Monet painting covered in Saran Wrap. But one day somebody catches on. They say: "You can't read that from here?" Or "Didn't you see that stripper's unibrow?" Or "Jesus, stop the car, you hit that hobo!" and then after a hasty burial in the Nevada desert, you book an appointment at the eye doctor and sit down in their sticky rubber chair. They settle a big black contraption in front of your eyes, point to a drab chart full of tiny letters, flip a little glass piece and say, "Better, or worse?"

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And you, in response, manage to force a handful of syllables through your emotion-clogged throat, barely muttering: "No words ... should have sent a poet."

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"The way the 'G' curves is so ethereal, so beautiful ... it's like a ballerina fucked the stars themselves."

You had no idea that life had better graphics available. You've been playing the 16-bit world this whole time, while everybody else was running quad-core realities hooked up to an HD screen. The only downside to this whole experience is dodging the errant punches from your friends and loved ones as you incessantly inquire as to the amount that they see this shit for the next several months:

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"Did you see those leaves? What? You can always see those? No, man, I mean: Can you see that, like, a tree is made up of a billion different leaves from all the way back here? Holy shit! Look at that gravel! It's not just gravel; it's a thousand different kinds of rock! Do you see it?! No, man, do you really see it?"