More is better until there is enough. Then it turns to vertigo, disorder. More neural connections, more novelty and stimulation, the pleasing disinformation of streaming bits, nuanced reframings of real and fictional children and narratives of nostalgic plenitude. My understanding is that Theocritus didn’t have a television. In the arched neck of summer, of the season’s loose dropping fruit. The crisp laughter of the stream, helixed with trout and salmon. “Even the gods dwelt in the woods.” When the buffer flows with language, nature and culture make noise. Something between lovemaking and warfare, between the pasture and the serpentine road. Such sounds as seem permanently unfinished– as all sounds aspire to be. More micronarrative and layers of meaning, more performative utterances. More outrage and joy, the alternated voicings of generation, the breaking of a broken thing. More is better until there is enough. Then it turns to noise, nothing.