Thank you for the four years I have been owned by The White Noise Machine which has helped me sleep in oblivion. I couldn’t have known the sleep a natural-born American man can find who each night listens with calming satisfaction to the sounds in the noise, to the pleas and the cries. I couldn’t have known that overwhelmed by human misery I could crash so far down into dream, a full-sail man blown at amazing acceleration—beautiful, so beautiful—past the youngest of the children taken from their families, given no information, shown no path home, thrown as pawns into pens, their stories, their stories, their living stories buried in mass graves almost pandemic-vast. I feel so blessed to have this winning White Noise Machine, a no-hoax cast of compost orange, dialing me in, protecting me from exhausting consciousness, from sleep-destroying impulses of wide-awake conscience. During this nightly terror briefing I can be lowered, my field of stripes and stars shaken, straightened, folded thirteen times, can sleep just fine tucked into my locked display case, and not have to be a human tossing and turning, trying to know his own loving-learning mind. I like every single setting: Pray Them Dead Lock Them Up Wall Them Out Steal Their Vote Merika Mine Merika More Mine Merika All Mine. O, My Greatagain Merika! This is the most patriotic wreath you will ever sleep beneath!