Who's tuned in? Who's watching? There are eyes tracing gridlines mapped over a dull six and a half inch screen, and at this very moment you are a series of oscillations being monitored for what can only be variances. You, the little rabbit being prodded along, are about to make quite the variance.

The screen really loses it's meaning when steam is rising from the slug inside it. The cracks in the screen, streaming outwards from the entry wound make the gridlines look like a spider web. You wonder, will the waves exit through that hole and spiral about this room, becoming what is and was and whatever will be.

The screen, you think, is beautifully framed by his skull casing and brain matter. Though, that incessant dripping of who knows what is really just plain old distracting. The screen though, it just draws you in. It pulls you into a wall and holds you there, pressing the life out of you. If we watch ourselves, do we become stuck in an infinite loop? Will this moment last forever? You knew the answer to that before you even thought it. His head droops and that picturesque moment is now but a memory, fresh and tinging in your mind and through to your teeth. For you, yes you, have found out exactly who's watching...and well, lets just say your ratings have just plummeted.

So who's watching? You'll never know, because he doesn't have a face anymore. Even if he did, he lost his identity when he began with this. So what do you do? Enjoy it. That's all there is. That's it for you.

If you still could conjure up thought, conciously and on this plane I mean, you'd probably be thinking right now "damnit, if he hadn't collapsed that would have been like a scene from a movie...completely impossible, yet strangely compelling in all it's glorious audacity.

The screen is a mess, and it's impossible to view a fucking thing out of it. It's just ruined. Your head is a steaming hole, dripping god knows what and...oh, now you've collapsed.

They stand above you, looking at all this mess you've created. One of them reaches down to depress the worn button on his radio. He calmly begins to talk and describes the situation to you know who (well, you did), but he fails to mention your name, because even if your face hadn't been blown off, you'd still fail to exist, because that's what you lost when they took you to this place...and if you still could think, conciously and on this plane I mean, you'd probably be thinking "well, that's all good and dandy, but who's watching? Who's tuned in? If we watch ourselves, do we become stuck in an infinite loop? Will this moment last forever?"

Some of those questions, I could very well answer, both clearly and coherently, however...there is no point, what with you being dead and all...but still, you knew the answer, to all of those, before you even thought it.