I thought I turned you on. I thought I pressed the button and the light came. Did the light come? Did we see it? I think I saw it. Still, I thought I turned you on. It was black – there was room for things like gold, like silver, like a connection, but mostly it was black. For aesthetics sake. And I sat on the horizon, my generation coupled with unfamiliarity and a hot buzzing fear; staccato demonstrations of speed, of light becoming human. The human quality of light. Of course there was static. Or. The post-post-post version of static. It didn’t make noise and it wasn’t fuzzy: it was hard and clear, as artificial white is. In nature white is subjective to light. In nature there is a narrative arc, the throwing of being to being. It speaks softly, thunder from a distance. Light before sound. And I sat there both fists clenched skin sweating and I pushed as many times as I could but the light only flickered. The light hardly came and it was barely there. I could not turn it on.