All I am on the Net is a voice you see. Patterns of light and darkness on a screen. I am typing these words on a grey keyboard in one corner of a newsroom, the place where I make other patterns of words that buy me bread and pay my mortgage. As I write, I hear a voice from the sports department behind my back: "Arizona's got no timeouts left. I think they're ranked second or third in that conference." And then the voice fades. I imagine the man was talking about basketball, a sport that means nothing to me, but I'll never know if Arizona won the game. When I get up, the colour TV that the voice was watching has been turned off. Silence on a blank screen.