This is the death of the neurotic lover, entangled and strangled in this living room couch trip romance. Separated by walls and ceilings and brick and mortar, always down the stairs, avoiding stares, twisting arms and limbs until they've broken from bending backwards. The desperate, persperated wet nightmare calling card waiting in the mailbox like half-flushed public restroom condoms. Everything becomes something and eventually becomes nothing until it's dissolved and dispersed into the air, breathed in through strangers' lungs in smoky hotel fumes, absorbed in the soil, and resurfaced in the hungry ants that tickle the young couple's legs carelessly straddled under the withering elm. The feeling travels upwards through the power lines, across the setting sky, and back into our very homes where it's televised on the evening news just before the big game. My hopes and dreams were broadcast to me late at night on a television infomercial advertising the soundtrack to my life. And when the spokesman's hungry eyes flickered neon jackpots I knew that I was really just one giant half-hour comedy where the show has ended but the laugh track keeps on playing.