Finally, somehow a tow truck passes me and I am dragged to Detroit,
to my hotel, to a
I put on the hotel robe and turn on the television.
My eyes rebel against the image that confronts me, no picture- just static-
just snow, as white and chaotic as the real stuff I'd just been staring
at for six hours through the truck's muddy windshield.
I open the curtains, the storm outside worsens- the static on TV becomes
more scrambled, the weather patterns communicating with my television.
Transmissions between real and man-made, but man is left out of the loop.
A beautiful, incomprehensible language.