What're the insomniacs watching?

Sitting cross-legged, back against the stacked-high king in a cheap room somewhere in Colorado. Unable to force interest in the softcore plot flickering mutedly across the screen. Marvelling at how very dry it all is, just barren forms feigning desire, twin deserts of flesh without feeling, dead husks in a dull pantomime of passion.

Again and again the impotent play unfolds, as indifferent and relentless as the emotions they pretend to feel. An equation makes itself clear, in time. Just insert the variable--blonde, brunette, redhead. Not even their names matter...Regardless of what they call themselves, at one level, one name covers all the bases.

I try to justify its being, struggle perhaps to make it something profound, seeking a metaphor for life in a weak plot of laughing betrayal and faux lust. A fool's errand, a work of futility, for this pseudo-erotic ballet is only facinating in its inability to touch, understand, in any way capture anything living, be it emotion or form. A study in unlife on channel 18.