We of the great spellbound seating watched in horror as bombs erupted onscreen. Watched in horror as the false loved ones we’d come to know in narration were disintegrated amid black-and-white static. Shrill, noiseless white from which nothing materializes or ebbs. The key of Data-Type Commands sitting on the edge of the desk at which you are sitting. We as the proverbial hive-mind all tuned in to the bombing at hand, frozen as the audience freezes, frozen as the mouse in its cage freezes and redirects attention to the spout where a new nicotine drip has been refilled. This quiet derelict hotel room you inhabit as the outer night chimes wind-whistles being the home of a lonely mind. (p.) The sound of near-silence and AC unit’s cool breath and ventilation filling the room with the mad-happening tip-taps of key board control. You, typing in the code which creates the mesh of the walls of the room you type in. Soft wind in the bikerides of Florida nights whose sidewalks withold shadow for a darkness that is pitch-black, a darkness such as darkest fog that substantiates a wonder where the bike’s black tires begin and the pavement ends. The echo chamber of crickets in the humid air so much also a wonder as to where the distance is from you and the next bur of scraggly yellow-green, in which crickets play on the wicked chorus of faint moonlight. The sound a sound somehow comparable to the idea or image of an ant being swallowed by a dollop of heavy rain. The sounds about their own sounds like the chimney smoking wild flames agust. We go in and out of the long-ago sensations and type in bug correction with feeble fingers once willed for gripping handlebars. There in silvery lakes of disturbed waters one lily-skipping frog makes way for Summer: to get to the other side. This hotel you’ve checked into to code the walls the and keep safe the keepsakes of its existence. This hotel in which no neighbors are audible or water tap quiet as drippage seeps into the mind’s subconscious like a metronome slowed way down. Way down into the gut the seeming sickness of late day’s rose blooming up and out like a good omen that might—we settle way down in our chair, unkempt and keeping still except the hands where the hands type. (p.) There are the lights of overpassing quadrocopters and sentient nether people flying up past the windows. There is the image on the screen of bright blankness as the studio audience holds its breath forever. There would be hearths to warm their bones, cotton swabs of alcohol to sterilize their wounds. There would be great seas of wheat which move and break in tidal dance: the swallowing of all guilt or silence or final loneliness there ever could be. There would be the computer monitor as the blank screen as the repository for the imagination of the viewers as the viewer that is you, holding your breath. There would be a great oncoming rush of life and the sounds of crying for a new warmth. The new warmth as a median between the real and the un-, a point of rest where at first there was no option but to fall endlessly. To wake anew and bloom up and out with gloaming petals. The first great sign of a true cage: wander.