Danny didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. A long while, probably. Just staring at the TV. Staring into the void. Staring.

     The idea of time was wasted on Danny at this point. It wasn’t part of his universe. Not anymore. Extinct. It went rushing by him, unobserved. Whilst he just sat. And stared. Didn’t even know what he was watching anymore. But it didn’t matter. It had him, that’s all that mattered. Oh yes, it had him. More than ever before. A stranglehold. Static. His sofa was wrapped up about him. He was melting into this scene, into the scenes lived out before him. His universe. Static.

     Then it came to him. He saw. He saw it all. Sudden snap realisation. Of course! The boredom. The ennui…what a word, ennui! Yeah! That’s it! The bigger picture. He could see it now. He could literally feel his brain beginning to bubble under the influence, this mounting comprehension. The surge. His brain was surging. Surging with understanding. He no longer stared at the TV. He saw it. He saw into it. Saw through it…what a rush! The images kept flashing up at his eyes, as they gleamed with his new sixth sense. So many colours. They’re not real. None of it is real. His boredom, not real. Superficial. He could beat it. Simon Cowell. Not real……and what a dick! There in his stupid v-necked sweater. Television anti-christ playing God. Not real. Those saps that sing for him. Not real, puppets. Well, not Danny! Oh no, not Danny boy, not no more! A sucker no longer! His boredom. It’s not real. Not real at all. He could feel it. His brain. His senses. Finally, tuned in right. Smashing through the screen. Smashing out of his self.

     He could see himself actually, his old self, reflected back at him, in the TV. Amongst those images. The images that flared at his face. There he was. But…but why was he still in there? Why could he still see himself in there? His face, still in the telly. His flaking face. There amid the disarray, the synthetic scenarios. He was still in there. Oh no! It was too late! His realisation, his revolution. It had come too late! On screen the TV images were taking over, gorging on his hair, on his head. Eating him alive. Shit! Simon Cowell was chewing on his face. His mouldy, decaying face. Submerged in the signals. Static attacking. He felt dizzy. Danny doesn’t like this guys. Doesn’t like this at all. There were two TVs now, spinning. Spinning faster. Two kaleidoscopes. One for each eye. Becoming each eye. His two square eyes…spinning………… spinning………….. …………….…fuck. Got to get out. Get away. He lost himself. For a minute there, he lost himself. Get a grip. You can do it. Get up. Wrenching his neck, he looked to the ceiling. Hands on sofa. Ready to push. All for one and one for all. Ok, and stand…this is good…this is good! Danny’s done it! Danny’s up! Danny’s away! Danny’s…

…“Danny? Dan? You alright mate? You off somewhere are ya? How’s that acid tab working out for ya?”

     Danny’s slanted eyes peered haphazardly about the room. There was Jimmy. His hairy, tangly torso was dissolving into the armchair beside him.

     “You’ve gone all silent and intense Dan mate. Here, have another tab.”

     “Erm…yeah, go on then,” said Danny, plunging back into his grateful groove in the sofa. “Wow, look, Spongebob’s on.”