Amidst familiar furniture – bookcase, dresser, lamp – stands on emphatic table the pitch rectangle, starless impenetrable. Push the flimsy button, the black spins numbers and windows fanfare. Its rummage of icons, rash of responses, its iridescent information. We delude ourselves it’s all at our fingertips – January forecasts, rainbow ‘friends’, kaleidoscope of known, Earth’s entireties, vivid soul food. The chips are up, but what if they’re down? Who am I? Pictured hours. Closed down it resumes rectangle. We stare there, we don’t know everything. We go back into day imagining myriad unvisited links. Despite information overload we are still in the dark.