| Untitled |
| We are all hanging from our satelite dishes. |
| Death becomes the end of the flickering light |
| There is nothing that can replace what has been taken away. |
| A new part of our being is stolen away. |
| As we wait for the light to go out. |
| The day it all stops we hang from our satelite dishes choking on extension chords. |
| The dystopia splints our broken hearts with self-destruction in the name of entertainment. |
| As interaction becomes novelty. |
| Our blood grows colder trying to stare down the electronic eye. |
| The next step towards extinction is when we stop talking to each other. |
 |
| photo by Susan Smith |