Now that the brutal media death has taken over and all the eyes are lining up in queues that run around the block, impatience seems to find itself stepping into huge puddles of slippery eggs that rueful children have broken in hopes of imitating their artless relationship with an incognito sun, savage eclipse of a newfoundland where ears peer into the distance speaking a never-before heard television language covered in layer upon layer of peacock feathers, a beautiful expanse of simultaneous transsexuality ramming genderless hallucinations into soft portholes of honest displeasure, a gentle ramming, the kinder, playful horniness of birds trading scatological queries with each other, the beating human breast of emotion calling home to make sure everything's okay, it isn't, someone has mysteriously disappeared, the only clue to work off of is the message left on the answering machine, a harried voice that seems to want me but still distances itself from me, and I, putting the sleepy receiver back into its General Electric cradle muttering to myself that this is me, that I've become the surface appearance of things...