Imagine a chimpish, greasy teenage boy sprawled out diagonally on a boring sea-foam living room couch, And he’s just staring at an old television set, trimmed with brown veneer. The glossy bubble’s pixels don’t move, but their colors change like a Chameleon, mixing in the infinite palette, creating the illusion of the program. And the flat, piercing bad speakers, from their machined gills are humming, whispering eternal frequencies But he is staring, just staring, with blank eyes.