Infantile tolerance of the mediated zone breeds contemptuous sponsors for the anodyne combine of subtle televisual offerings and geostationary couch potatoes. Confined to filling space in the schedule of vicarious frills we orphans of reality seek answers in the most unlikely circumstances. We lived, we loved, and we died in the comfort of our arm sockets and the blindness of our dreaming. Lost to the unexplained textbook lists of vacant heads we expanded into the zero zone. Our veins drip coca cola, our hearts pump fat around our corpulent flesh mountains – we are dying without ever living, looking without seeing, listening without hearing. We are touched by nothing and nothing is our inheritance. We rest our weary foreheads on the plasma screen and swear by the cathode ray gun that we are individuals; singular and discrete while sharing our scattered dreams with the white noise of the void.