position the phantom rigged in reflective tape.
situated like a makeshift antenna, grinning like tinfoil.
we're losing reception. we can't pick up the game.
i should be discontinued.
i am a broadcasting embarrasment.
hiss like the damned.
decoding the transmitted pulse that dispatch from her lips.
i am not recieving a sign that says i am still here anymore.
[ *from http://www.index-of-mp3s.com/lyric/every-time-i-die/emergency-broadcast-syndrome.html ]
do you hear me?
am i coming through at all?
is any of this making sense?
you've got a ghost on your hands.
a televisual image only partially clear.
scrambled phantom (i wish we'd all just stop talking at once).
spitting and cursing from the scrapheap we're on.
you should have lost your cool.

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