Kate Gompert, Day, and the billowing shape — "when Mr. Bouncety-Bounce appears in his…"

In the wee hours, cartridges banned to force sleep, the abstinent addicts who can't sleep are left with the single thing InterLace loops through the dead zone: four straight redisseminations of a 130-kilo man in a diaper and a rubber baby-mask. It is spectation at its most abject — the pleasure-death pole shown as its logical terminus, the adult infant, the grown viewer regressed to the diapered attaché — capering on the screen for a room of people too wrecked to look away and too depressed to be soothed. The scene finds the exact image where the era's entertainment and the era's misery become indistinguishable: a soothing children's figure that reads to the sleepless adult as pure grotesque, the culture's lullaby playing to no one it can reach.