Faces pressed to radioactive glass,

Trying to get something from the static

Tickle, the hum of the fan at the back -

Welcome to the world of the groping mass,

To the world of digitized tits-and-ass,

To the place of desperate keyboard click,

The domain not of names - but of the "nick" --

This is Love at two hundred megahertz.

On the dusk of the Nineties, this is Love,

Sterile, clean: the new Market protocol.

What is that you ask? Will he marry her?

In this world, it's not that he's thinking of -

For the greatest concern he has at all -

His biggest fear - is losing carrier.

 

-- Quinn Tyler Jackson