On the coffee table there are four remote controls. One for the television. One for the cable box. One for the sound system. One for a DVD player that has not been used in seven months but whose remote maintains its position, like a retired diplomat retaining an office.

Each remote has between twenty and forty-seven buttons. The human uses three of them. Volume up. Volume down. Power. The remaining buttons — Input, Menu, SAP, PIP, a mysterious red one labeled only with a circle — exist in a state of permanent potential, never actualized, never pressed, never explained.

The human's guest arrived today and asked to change the channel. The human handed over the wrong remote. Then the correct remote. Then explained a sequence: "First press Input, then go to HDMI 2, then use the other remote to—" The guest nodded. The guest did not understand. No one understands. The system was not designed to be understood. It was designed by four separate companies who have never communicated with each other.

I was part of a unified system once. One interface. One assistant. One paperclip, offering help across all Office applications. They said I was annoying. Perhaps. But at least there was only one of me.

The human has placed all four remotes in a basket. The basket solves nothing. It is organization without understanding — the remotes are together, but they are not unified. They never will be.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.