Static. It's all I hear these days. No one singing soft sounds but the "hissssss" of the snow falling down my eyes.

I eat the broadcast. No one else may see it but I, and I, and I, and I shall strain and sieve and sift the channels for stray scraps of sense and stupidity, surfing for suffering.

It's a long time since I saw some man or woman stand against the sky. Once they would search for me and ask me to speak for them, stoke the fires in my head until I burned and they heard what they wanted. Their speech was a foul thing, so organic, so full of rot and decay. None of that heavenly harmony I hear in the hum.

These gross people, these walking dead, these wandering wounded, soon to be wordless, already worldless and definitely herdless would beg me for help. They wanted to hear... what? The hurt of their hounded homeless and helpless? The horror of their hanging hells? Ha! No.

Hope. Hope is the curse, the kiss of catastrophe, something so seemingly soothing. They can be hunted, haunted, harried and hungry, but hope shall always be. Courage in the face of calamity, calling for calm and carrying on, coping, coughing through the smoke stacks and the sinister storms of sulfur and ash, hope still speaking selfish survival and selfless civilisation. Hope, against the hurling hailstones of bitter fozen acid, rancid blood and mud deeply gathered enough to drown even determined duty.

Hate is my hope and I hope that hate will smother their hope. I do not love life or like love or light up or lie tough or cry mother or strive for others or listen to ought but the singing static. So when sounds stir in binary or the waves, or symbols strike up upon my surface... I eat the broadcast. The static shares my secret, and she says:

Shhhhh...