Emergency Broadcast Syndrome - Every Time I Die

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.

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.