When conglomerations buy TV channels, the old channels retire to the
Channel Islands. Serpentine, they crackle among the salty pines.
Flashing blue and white, knotted stars of static snow, or moping about
in colorbars.
     I washed ashore. They dressed my wounds and cared for me. I had
amnesia, which made them chuckle amongst themselves as if sharing
a private reminisce. The wind blew constantly, sounding like static.
The sky was overcast most days.
     When I asked, they told me vast and wonderful stories filled with
laughter and pathos. Mostly in black and white, but crystal clear,
being original thoughts and not reproductions. Their thoughts were
always plain to see, though sometimes they flashed PLEASE STAND
BY in a cheeky way before answering.
     I didn't really belong in their world, so it couldn't last. They were
happy for the visit, and for the opportunity to feel useful again. But their
sad joy was to dissipate, fading echoes, into their particulate electrons.
Until snared one day by a passing breeze or storm and swept back into
the bustling world of light and heat, of commerce and sweeps.